


The Hardest of Hearts

by buttercup23



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercup23/pseuds/buttercup23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haughty, suspicious, and grief-stricken, Elissa makes it clear to Alistair when they meet that she wants nothing to do with him or the Wardens. So, when they are left as the only two surviving Wardens after Ostagar, he wonders if they can overcome their differences to do what must be done, while Elissa struggles to find her place in a reality she is only just starting to accept. NOTE: Abandoned</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Hardest of Hearts**

_Dreary._

If Alistair had to describe the Korcari Wilds in a word, that’d be it. The wilds were a _dreary_ place.

They were, for one thing, covered in thick marshy grass that managed to stick to his legs even as he tried to keep to the rough path they were following. The water seemed to have a mind of its own, seeping in between the greaves of his spintmail and mixing with his own sweat in order to thoroughly chill him in the most uncomfortable way imaginable.

For another thing, the sky was a completely unacceptable color for a sky. Grey or blue he could handle, but this sky was green. _Everything_ seemed tinged with green—and not a fresh, vibrant green either—a sickly green that suggested rot. Like the green of a moldy piece of fruit, Alistair decided.

He risked a glance back at the Cousland girl. She _had_ to be freezing. She’d arrived at Ostagar a disheveled mess of mismatched armor. Half of it was the beautifully crafted, but more decorative than functional, leather armor favored by the female gentry. It was fine for tournaments or friendly sparring matches or . . . whatever else it was that female nobility did in leather armor. But for walking through the cold and _dreary_ Korcari Wilds, it was lacking in some very basic ways.

The girl’s arms and legs were bare, and her leather tunic and skirt provided little protection from the cold wet air. At least she now had the cloak he’d bought her at the merchant stall with the last of his money.

Not that she’d thanked him.

Alistair sighed and looked up again at the offensive green sky. This assignment was turning out to be far more difficult than he could have imagined.

His own Joining ritual had been fresh on his mind when Duncan asked him to see to the needs of the new recruits. He’d remembered how he had felt when he first heard about the dangerous ritual—he was not ashamed to admit even now that he had been frightened at the prospect of not surviving it. But he’d never doubted the path he was on or what he was meant to do. He’d known ever since Duncan recruited him that being a Warden was his one and only destiny. While he had been frightened, he’d also been determined.

So, he’d been excited at the prospect of not only proving his mettle to Duncan, but of meeting new Wardens ( _potential_ new Wardens, he’d had to correct himself repeatedly). He imagined that the other recruits might look to him for guidance and support. It would be nice to be the one with the answers for once, instead of just questions. Except for the questions he _couldn’t_ answer anyway. That part of the task wasn’t particularly enjoyable, of course. But he had expected that.

What he hadn’t expected was dealing with the realities of leadership when accompanied with recruits who were anything but what he’d imagined they’d be.

Alistair looked around at the small party he led. The thief from Denerim, Daveth, walked next to him, carrying his long bow with an arrow already notched in it, and looking around warily _._

Alistair hadn’t had high expectations for the man. But, of the three of them, it was only Daveth who seemed to really grasp how dire a potential Blight could be. He was afraid as any sane man should be when faced with monsters that came from the bowels of the earth to threaten their existence—but he was also brave in the face of that danger. Alistair had come to give the man a grudging respect.

Ser Jory stood behind him, the knight from Highever. Alistair had thought that aside from a tendency to drone on about his wife “heavy with child” back in Highever, the man had been a fine enough candidate. However, ever since they came across the ambushed scouting party, Jory had been acting more and more, well, spooked.  It was becoming a bit hard to take.

That left Elissa. She was by far the worst.

He supposed that was unfair. He knew the circumstances of her recruitment. It was a dreadful, tragic story. Her entire family had been betrayed and murdered by Arl Howe’s men. Alistair could scarcely believe it when Duncan told him. The Warden Commander had barely escaped himself, and rescued the youngest Cousland from certain death. But if the girl was at all grateful for this, she had as yet shown any sign of it.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, exactly. He hadn’t had much time to contemplate it before the young woman had appeared at his side, frowning up at him under a head of messy blonde hair and a leather hat that was almost comically too large.

He thought he should be forgiven, perhaps, for both not recognizing her straight away and for staring overlong at the poor girl at that first meeting. She was short for a Ferelden woman, and it was clear that some pieces of her armor had been gathered on the trip to Ostagar. In addition to the hat, the girl’s gloves were of thicker and darker leather than the rest of her armor.

But what really caught his attention was the weaponry she was carrying. One arm had a small round shield attached to it—the other held a finely made long sword. From a belt slung low over her hips hung two daggers and on her back he thought he saw a crossbow and a quiver of bolts.

By the time he took it all in and met her eyes again, it was clear from her angry scowl and accompanying red cheeks she’d misinterpreted his scrutiny as some kind of lecherous staring.

It just got more awkward from there.

In the merchant stall he’d asked her if she used the shield she carried. When answered in the negative, he’d suggested trading it for some better armor.

 “Why?” Elissa had been immediately offended. “What’s wrong with my armor?”

“Well, nothing, really it’s just not . . . it’s cold here and you’ll probably want to cover up a bit ah . . .uh   
. . . more,” he’d gestured lamely at her bare arms and legs. _Surely there had to be a smoother way to have done that._

Elissa stared at him a long moment, scowling angrily. Finally she said, “This shield has been in my family for over _four hundred_ years. I’m not letting go of it.” She looked at him, and then looked down and said quietly, “Do I have to?”

 _She’s terrified_ , he had realized, and then felt the fool for not seeing it quicker. The girl was wound as tightly as anyone Alistair had ever met, and given what Duncan told him, he could understand. He resolved to treat her with more sympathy from there on out.

“No, of course not. It was just an idea – let’s see what else we can do.”

Even if she’d been inclined to sell her shield, the merchant didn’t have any armor that would fit the small woman.

“I’ve got armor for boys and I got armor for women,” the merchant had said through a mouth of chewing tobacco. “But I don’t got no elf lady armor.”

“I’m not an elf!” Elissa had said a bit heatedly. He stepped in before the situation could get worse.

“Of course not,” Alistair said, reaching into his pocket for the few coins he had left. “Can we just get a warm cloak for her?” The merchant took the coins and retrieved a folded up cloak from a trunk at his feet.

“This’ll keep her warm enough,” the merchant handed the cloak to Alistair. “Has a hood and everything.”

“Thanks.” Alistair turned to face Elissa.

She was nowhere to be found.

“Elissa?” he said dumbly, looking around. It took him another few moments to catch sight of the girl’s blonde head in the company of a couple of soldiers. He trotted over in time to hear Elissa start yelling at them.

“ _What_ do you mean? A scouting party has gone missing? _Who’s_ scouting party?” For a moment Alistair feared she’d point the sword she was carrying at them, but thank the Maker, she merely clutched it at her side as she stared the two men down.

The soldiers gave each other puzzled looks. The taller one shrugged.

“What’s it to you anyway?” he said with a laugh.

Elissa gripped the sword in her hand more tightly.

 “Look, even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you anyway without you asking _nicely_ ,” the other soldier stepped in. _Maker, that’s not going to go over well._

Alistair didn’t wonder why Elissa was acting so perturbed—he knew that her brother was out there, scouting the wilds, a fact that Elissa had not taken well when she’d been informed of it upon arriving at Ostagar.  He too had heard rumors of a missing patrol, but he hadn’t thought to put the two pieces of information together.

Elissa’s eyes narrowed dangerously and she gripped her sword even harder, causing it to rise ever so slightly toward the two men. This was bad. He recognized the soldiers as members of Loghain’s company. The last thing the Grey Wardens needed was to piss off the Hero of the River Dane by getting into an altercation with some of his men. He coughed and, thinking quickly, stepped in to try and smooth things over.

“Please forgive my fellow Warden,” he said stepping just a bit in front of Elissa to try and put himself between her and the soldiers. He continued in a low tone. “She didn’t mean to be rude. She’s just concerned about her brother—Ser Fergus Cousland. We last heard that he was scouting the wilds. Do you know if it’s his men that are late in returning?”

At the mention of the name _Cousland_ the two men shared a glance and seemed to visibly relax a bit.

“Beg your pardon, my lady,” the first soldier said, inclining his head slightly to Elissa. “I’m not sure whose patrol has gone missing, I’m afraid. It’s just camp rumor.” He shrugged and the two men shuffled off, sparing only a few pitying glances toward the young noblewoman as they continued on their way.

Alistair sighed with relief. He turned to Elissa with a reassuring smile, pleased at coming to the rescue and managing to defuse the situation without incident. His smile fled quickly, though, when he saw her expression.

She was glaring angrily at him.

“ _What_ the hell are doing?” she hissed.

“I just . . . I was trying to help?” he said in confusion.

Elissa looked around angrily before turning back to him and scowling angrily. She spoke to him as if he were a small child. “I do not know if Howe has allies here. I would <i>prefer</i> not to announce my identity to every stranger here, <i>if you don’t mind</i>.”

“Those were _Loghain’s_ men,” he said, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I doubt very much the Hero of River Dane wants to harm you.”

Elissa glared at him a moment longer before looking away and shaking her head slightly. “My father and Arl Howe were friends for over thirty years,” she said. After a pause she met his gaze again. “I’m not making any assumptions.”

He had shrugged and moved on, not wanting to argue. It was ludicrous, of course, to be so suspicious, but it’s not like he could explain that to her.  He supposed he might find himself a bit wary too, if he were in her shoes. But the truth was that half the camp was busy discussing the girl’s family and what had happened in Highever. The sensational story had spread through the camp like wildfire after Duncan had arrived with the youngest Cousland. And, he didn’t point out, she was carrying her family shield with the Cousland crest blazoned on the front. Of course people would recognize her.

Alistair’s ruminations were interrupted by the sound of Jory clearing his throat. He glanced back to see the knight turn to Elissa and say, “you’re certainly not what I expected as the last recruit.”

Alistair winced. If he could have gotten away with it, he’d have shouted at Jory to abort this line of conversation, having learned all too well how prickly Elissa could be when questioned.  But there was really no way to warn him without risking her ire as well, and he comforted himself with the knowledge at that at least this time, her anger wouldn’t be directed at him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

If Jory recognized the dangerous tone in Elissa’s voice, he made no sign of it. The knight just shrugged.  
  
“Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting a woman, that’s for sure,” he continued amiably and obliviously. “I didn’t think the Grey Wardens recruited women.”

Alistair almost snorted. He’d already learned from his own interactions with Elissa that this was not a topic she cared for.

“What kind of backwater arling do you live in that’s never heard of female fighters?”

“I’m from Highever.”

Alistair really shouldn't have laughed, but the snort that escaped him was involuntary.

If she heard him, she made no sign of it. _Thank the Maker for small mercies._

“You’re from _Highever_?”

Jory went on, oblivious as always. “Well, I hail from Redcliff originally. But Highever has been my home for the last year. I was trying to convince my wife to return to Redcliff with me when Duncan recruited me.”

“Aren’t you concerned?”

“Milady?” Jory said in confusion.

“You mean . . . you don’t know? _No one has told you_?”

Her accusatory tone was not lost on Alistair. He didn’t need to turn around to know that her eyes were boring holes into the back of his head. He could _feel_ them.

“Told me what?” The whole party had stopped now. Elissa stared hard at the knight, looking as if she were choosing her next words carefully.

“The Arl of Amaranthine attacked Castle Cousland a fortnight ago, killing the entire family and household,” she said evenly.

Jory turned pale. “That’s . . . that’s simply dreadful. I can’t believe it. Why would the Arl _do_ such a thing?”

Elissa didn’t answer—she just stood there scowling at the man. Finally, Jory collected himself and with a shake of his head, he said sincerely, “I am _deeply_ sorry for your loss, my lady. I . . .I don’t even know what to say. That’s the most terrible thing I can imagine.”

The young woman’seyebrows shot upward. “You know who I am?”

Jory bowed his head in apology. “Forgive me, my Lady Cousland. I recognized your shield and I knew your first name. I . . . I am sorry. When you were introduced to me I just assumed you wanted to keep your identity secret.”

For the first time since he had met her, Elissa’s expression softened into something not resembling anger. The scowl was gone, and for a moment Alistair thought that Elissa was going to thank Jory for his condolences. He found himself irrationally annoyed that dumb clod was able to elicit anything but anger from Elissa, when he had failed so utterly in that capacity. But the moment passed quickly and Elissa’s scowl returned.

“Let’s hope for your wife’s sake that Howe limited his attack to the castle and didn’t extend it to the village below,” she said sharply.

At that, Jory’s face turned pale again and he stammered for a moment. “Are you suggesting . . . do you think my wife is in danger?”

Alistair closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _We just got him calmed down, too._ When he opened them he saw Elissa looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he had to wonder if she was doing this on purpose at this point—just trying to make his life as difficult as possible for some strange reason.

He rubbed his hand over his face and tried to think of something reassuring he could say, but Elissa spoke up before he could.

“Who knows?” she said with a disinterested shrug. “There’s little to gain by terrorizing the town folk, I suppose, but Howe’s men were a . . . detestable lot.”

She sneered at the last bit, and cast her gaze downward. Alistair got the sense she was caught in an unpleasant memory, fear and hatred vying for dominance on her face for a few seconds.

“I . . . this is terrible. I must return at once!”

 _Maker’s breath!_ This just kept getting worse and worse.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair said, stepping between Elissa and Jory. He placed a hand on Jory’s shoulder and looked at him in the eye. “Highever is weeks away, and we’ve got a horde of Darkspawn to contend with.”

Jory looked around crazily and Alistair feared he might make a bolt for it right then and there. He placed another hand on Jory’s other shoulder and gave him a light shake.

“Listen. _Listen!_ After the battle we’ll see about getting a messenger to Highever and we’ll try and figure out what is going on.” Jory started to respond and Alistair cut him off. “Come on. We’ll make sure your wife is safe, but for now, we have a job to do and we’d best complete it before dark.”

With that, Alistair turned the man in the direction they were headed and gave him a slight push. Dazed but apparently appeased at least temporarily, Jory stumbled forward and joined Daveth, muttering under his breath as they resumed their walk down the path. Elissa made to follow them, but Alistair put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“That was _cruel_ ,” he said under his breath.

“Cruel?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “ _I’m_ the cruel one? I’m not the one who plucked that poor fool away from his wife and child to join your godforsaken little boy’s club,” she hissed at him, and then jerked her arm away and stalked after the two men.

Alistair stared after her in quiet resignation. _She has a point_ , he though ruefully.  _And she doesn’t even know the half of it._

He shook his head and fell into step behind the rest, feeling like a complete failure. One thing consoled him: he was obviously terrible at leading and if Duncan had any sense at all, he’d never ask him to do something like this again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Elissa's blade sliced through the Genlock's throat, splattering black blood at her face and arms as the Darkspawn slid to the ground with a thud.

"Ugh," she said, wiping her face with a corner of her cloak. These creatures were utterly monstrous and vile. Even their blood smelled rank—and now she discovered she was covered with the stuff. She stifled a gag as she inspected herself. The blood had splattered onto her fine leather tunic, and she feared it'd be stained permanently.

She gave a deep sigh and knelt, frowning at her blades as she wiped them onto the wet grass. She spared a glance for the others. They appeared to be taking a breath themselves after finishing off the remaining creatures.

 _Good._  No one had seen her.

Not that she cared about impressing them, of course. In fact, she'd half wondered whether if she'd shown herself to be completely incompetent in battle they'd be forced to realize their mistake in recruiting her and let her go.

So, when they first encountered the Darkspawn, she'd hung back at the fringes of the battle, firing bolts with her crossbow. She'd picked off the Genlock archers easily enough, but then saw that the party was quickly getting overwhelmed. She couldn't fire at the enemy without risking hitting one of her men.

She had stood there, a moment, growling in frustration at herself before finally throwing the crossbow to the ground, drawing her daggers as she ran in to join the fighting. They'd made quick work of the monsters after that.

The meadow was quiet now—almost oppressively so after the cacophony of battle faded.

She felt her heartbeat start to slow, and as she exhaled her battle-heated blood started to cool. The exertion had drained her of what little she had for energy. It had also seemed to drain away a bit of her grief and rage. She was thinking more clearly at least.

She realized with a jolt that she hadn't thought about Howe or her parents once during the battle.

"Elissa? Are you alright?" The Warden with the kind eyes was talking to her, again.

 _This would be so much easier if you were a jerk,_  she thought, not for the first time. She  _wanted_  to hate the young man the way she hated Duncan and the Wardens in general. But the easy-going Templar made that difficult.

"Not even remotely," she said aloud, a note of resignation in her voice.

Alistair looked down at her, surprise at first lining his features, only to be replaced all too quickly with concern. She realized numbly that this response was probably the most civil one she had given him since they had met, and a part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

But before she could, she found herself caught in his gaze—warm, kind eyes, full of compassion and sympathy for her. They reminded her of other eyes—different in color but just as kind. Eyes she would never see again.

 _It's not his fault he reminds you of Rory,_ she thought with a frown.  _But a warden still/i_ , another part of her mind rebelled.

From what Elissa had learned in the last two weeks, the Wardens were an ancient group, famed for their ruthlessness and effectiveness in fighting the Darkspawn and ending the Blight.

They were supposed to be heroes, but to Elissa they seemed more like thugs, kidnapping her against her will and forcing her into servitude she didn't feel she was at all suited for. There had to be a way out of this, her mind reasoned during its brief clear moments, when her thoughts weren't clouded by grief and rage.

She figured that if she could just survive the battle, maybe afterwards she would finally find Fergus. And maybe this terrible wrong could be righted.

That fact that it was a mistake was as evident to her as the fact of the sun rising every morning. She was not raised to  _this_.

She still didn't fully understand why Duncan had insisted on recruiting her. She had asked him once, on their way to Ostagar.

Elissa stared at her now clean daggers, thinking of the fugue state she'd been in during most of her trip here with Duncan.

She had mostly just followed him, mutely obeying his commands. He had spoken to her in soft, soothing tones that made it easy to do what he said. _Sit here. Drink this. Follow me._

She wasn't even really fully aware of him, and gave him little thought those first few days. All she did was cry, all day long, tears that brought no relief or catharsis, but only seemed to replenish themselves with each wail.

_All dead._

_All but me._

It was too horrifying to be borne. She had heard the word heartbreak before, but never wondered at what it would feel like. Now it was as if she was walking around with a gaping wound where her heart should be.

There were a brief few seconds at the start of each day that weren't filled with aching sadness: as she struggled through the exhaustion to rise from the fitful sleep she was able to grab, it would take her sometimes a half of a minute or more before she would remember that everyone she knew and loved was dead.

On the fourth day she was able to handle this revelation without tears. Sure enough, they welled up hotly in her eyes when her mind found its way back (as it ever did, each moment she was awake) to that awful night at Castle Cousland, but this time something in her, some small part of her she didn't know existed, fought back against the daily torturous route of her thoughts.

_No. Not again. I won't cry again._

She had just needed to distract herself—to find something else to worry about for the moment. She couldn't handle another day of constant sobbing. Her throat was raw, her eyes swollen. She was exhausted from little sleep.

So she had turned her attention finally to Duncan, the man who "rescued" her. . .

She contemplated him a moment. She had thought him handsome when they first met. He'd spoken to her at dinner about Rory—or at least, that's where the conversation started. It head ended up feeling more about her in the end.

"The Warden's life is not an easy one," he had told her. "And not for everyone. Before I recruit Rory, I would know what he is leaving behind."

He had looked at her significantly at that last phrase, and Elissa felt her cheeks redden at his scrutiny. She caught his meaning easily enough.

"Rory is a dear friend, Ser Duncan," she had replied as evenly as she could. "Joining the Wardens is what he wants to do. I support him in this."

Duncan had nodded thoughtfully at this and fell silent. Elissa found herself scrutinizing him now. He had expressed interest in recruiting her earlier, but her father would have none of it. Even if he had thought to allow it, her mother would never permit it. It would be far too dangerous, and while a woman should know how to defend herself, women weren't built for battle, she would say.

And Elissa would roll her eyes and think  _Hypocrite._

In any case, Elissa had no desire to join the Wardens. She had no desire to change anything about her life at all, in fact. She lived a life of comfort and ease surrounded by family who loved her. Why would she want that to change?

His interest had been a flattering curiosity before Howe's attack. Now, as she watched him walking in front of her and thought about her mother, she wanted to rage at him for the injustice of it all.

When they first met, he'd told her that he wouldn't risk her father's ire by recruiting her, but he let it be known that he had that authority should he choose to use it.

And then he did, later that night. He had turned to her father and made a deal with him. He'd save Elissa if she agreed to be a Grey Warden.

It had enraged her. She didn't need his help. She had fought with her mother ( _killed so many men, sliced their throats and spilled their guts on the floor, she was covered in their blood)_ to get this far. Surely she and Eleanor could make it if they stuck together.

She hadn't wanted to join but Duncan had insisted—.

She stopped walking. He took only a step before noticing and turning around curiously.

"You left her."

It was the first words she had spoken in days, but if Duncan seemed surprised he didn't show it. He didn't ask to whom she was referring, either. He looked at her a long moment.

"It was her choice," he said finally.

Elissa inhaled sharply. "No. It's  _your fault._ You could have convinced her. She was i _alive/i_."

Duncan didn't react at first. He just looked at her, an inscrutable look on his face. After a moment he said, "I do not believe I could convince her if you could not."

The words felt like a blow.

 _It's my fault_.

She should have tried harder to convince her. Why hadn't she? The answer came to her as she looked at the man now studying her. She hadn't been able to argue because she was too busy trying to convince this man that she didn't want to become a Warden, but he had  _insisted_  with his so-called Right of Conscription.

"Why the hell do you want me as a warden anyway?" she spat out.

"I believe you are a worthy candidate. And the coming Blight requires that I find a Grey Warden recruit."

She frowned. She had no illusions about her fighting skills. She was a decent enough combatant. She was proud of her speed at blade work, but she wasn't nearly practiced enough, and—according to her brother at least—she relied far too often on dirty tricks. She knew she had much more to learn.

"So I'm your recruit because there was no one else?"

"Well, in a way yes, but only because I know you did not want to become a Grey Warden."

"I still don't."

"I am aware," he said without anger. "But I know who you are. More importantly, I know your family. You are a Cousland, and a Cousland always does their duty."

Elissa blinked, rousing herself from her memories to see that Alistair was still staring at her in concern, kneeling now to get a better look at her. She felt some of the tension from earlier begin to return at his worry. She found herself missing the cool disinterest Duncan had displayed on their travels here. And that just made her even more cross.

"I am fine," she said, sharply, rising to her feet and ignoring the hand he proffered in help. She saw his face fall, and it was obvious to her that her one slightly civil response to him had been enough to raise his hopes that they might converse as something other than enemies.

She wanted to laugh in his face, to tell him she didn't buy this kind act he was putting forth. No one was that patient or compassionate to put up with her jibes and sneers for as long as he had.

_Except Rory . . ._

But no. It was ludicrous to hope that the men she found in her company were as honorable and kind as her Rory had been. It just wasn't possible. He must want something _._

She could imagine what that something was.

 _Men._  If you gave them any sort of encouragement at all, even simple politeness, they assumed the world.

"Good. Let's move on."

Alistair frowned and walked away. She felt a small pang of guilt at his hurt expression.

_What if he really was sincere?_

She shook her head and sighed. It didn't matter. She was going to make it through this day and night, and then she would find Fergus and that would make everything right again.

That was all that mattered now.


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair shifted in his seat as he and Duncan sat waiting for Elissa to wake up. They'd only been waiting a couple of minutes, but to Alistair, it felt like hours. He leaned forward and rested his head on his hands.

The Joining had gone. . .  _poorly_.

It went bad from the start, Alistair was forced to admit. Jory was obviously nervous about the whole thing, helped not at all by their trip to the Korcari Wilds and their surprising meeting with the Witches of the Wild. The whole thing just proved too much for the young knight. He was a mess of nerves even before Duncan described the ritual to everyone. Still, Alistair could have never predicted that Jory would draw his blade against Duncan.

It was horrible. Losing Daveth was bad enough. Watching the Warden Commander cut down a recruit for resisting was quite another.

Alistair rubbed his face with his hand and looked at the Cousland girl where she slept. She didn't appear to be dreaming—at least not yet. She looked almost peaceful, lying there, brow smooth and eyebrows in their normal position, for once. For the first time, Alistair could study her without risking her ire.

She was kind of pretty, underneath all that dirt. High cheekbones, pretty little nose—delicate features, perhaps sharper than what would normally be considered attractive. He frowned as his eyes wandered away from her face, over her exposed neck and collarbone to rest on her finely made leather tunic, blotted with dark Darkspawn blood.

She was thin, he thought with a frown as he noticed how disturbingly her rib bones showed through the thin leather of her armor. He wondered if she'd eaten much on her journey to Ostagar. It really was a miracle that she survived the Joining, frail and weak as she was.

He frowned again, remembering the look on Elissa's face when Duncan presented the Joining cup to her. He'd never seen any eyes burn with so much hatred and betrayal.

She had stood there, glaring at Duncan, and making no move to accept the chalice in front of her. For one long, horrible moment Alistair feared that she would refuse to drink it altogether. He glanced fearfully at Duncan, but the Warden Commander made no move to draw his sword just yet.

Finally, Elissa took the cup that was offered to her. She didn't drink it though—instead, she stood there a moment longer, still glaring, still filling Alistair's chest with dread that she would refuse.

_Just drink._

The blood from Jory's wound was still seeping through the stones at their feet.

"What about the deal you made?" Elissa said.

Duncan shook his head and took a step closer to Elissa. Alistair felt his heart drop to his stomach.

"Now is not the time for questions," Duncan said evenly. He had yet to make a move for his weapon. Alistair glanced nervously at Elissa.

She didn't move.

"You  _promised_  them," Elissa said, her voice cracked with grief. "You told my mother you would keep me safe."

"I told your mother that I would deliver you safely to Ostagar, and that in return you would become a Grey Warden. I have fulfilled my end of the deal. Now, it is your turn. Drink."

Duncan took a step forward and uncrossed his arms. Alistair understood the gesture. There would be no more delay.

Elissa didn't move. He saw the fear and despair take over behind her eyes, which no longer focused on Duncan, but rather darted wildly around the room. His mouth went dry. She saw what had happened to Jory. Surely she wouldn't refuse to drink the cup?

"Elissa," his voice sounded hoarse, unnatural. "Elissa, you  _have_  to drink it, you know that right?"

Her wild eyes settled on him as he was speaking, and once they found his she stared at him uncomprehending.

"Elissa," he tried again. "If you don't drink it you'll die. If you drink it you can survive."

_Please._

Comprehension seemed to finally dawn on the girl's face, and almost immediately her scowl returned.

"Of course I'll survive, won't I?" she said bitterly, raising the cup to her lips at last. Just before she looked as if she might finally drink, she paused and looked at Alistair.

"If something happens to me tell my brother, please. Warn him about Howe."

She turned and raised an angry eyebrow at Duncan, as if daring him to object. He did nothing, however—just stood there with one hand now resting on a dagger, watching her with dark eyes.

Finally, she lifted the cup to her lips and drank. Alistair held his breath.

She had been fine.  _Thank the Maker._  Or as fine as someone could be after having their eyes roll back in their head and dropping like a stone.

He had stepped forward and caught her. She weighed nothing in his arms. He found himself wondering if anyone had caught him when he'd passed out at his own Joining. Or had they left him to hit the ground with a thud? He didn't know.

"You're relieved."

Alistair started at the words. He looked over to see Duncan studying him.

"Yeah," he said trying to keep his voice neutral. "It would have been awful to lose all of them." That was true. He'd only lost one at his own Joining.

"Indeed," Duncan said. "Though I admit it was she of the three who I most hoped would make it."

Alistair looked at Duncan in surprise. He had tried to be careful about such hopes—not to feel them, and certainly not to express them. It didn't seem right to play favorites, to rank people's lives in terms of preference. And yet, if he were being honest with himself, he would have to admit that it would have hurt more than he could explain if the poor girl had survived all that she had only to die here, sad and angry at the world.

"Me too," he said at last, looking at Duncan and feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He was sure the other Wardens would have given him shit about the pretty new recruit he was worrying over, but if Duncan questioned his motivations, he didn't show it. He just looked sad.

"The Couslands were old, old friends of mine. It would have been terrible to lose all of them."

Alistair's brows shot up in surprise. "You knew her parents?"

Duncan nodded. "We became acquainted shortly after I arrived in Ferelden, after I became the Warden Commander." He leaned forward and looked intently at Elissa. "The Couslands are a proud and noble family. Though I would have avoided the tragedy that inspired it, I must admit, we are lucky to have her."

Were they, though? Alistair opened his mouth to question it, but stopped himself in time. Who was he to second guess the Warden Commander anyway?

Duncan must have sensed his hesitation in his lack of a response. He kept his eyes on Elissa but he raised his eyebrows in question. "Do you doubt her abilities?"

Again, Alistair opened his mouth and then shut it, hesitating to say a bad word about a new recruit. He glanced at the sleeping girl. This was the first Joining he'd been a part of since his own. It was hard not to put himself in her shoes, in spite of everything. He'd have felt awful if someone had said negative things about him behind his back, to the Warden Commander.

He turned back to Duncan and said lowly, "No, not at all. She's good in a fight. She's quick on her feet. We uh, actually fought well together."

It was true. The girl knew how to fight. She seemed to intrinsically know the flow of battle, and was always just where she should be, ducking under his shield at just the right time, or sliding behind an enemy to offer the killing blow right when things looked like they might turn sour for him.

"She seems to have experience fighting among soldiers," he added.

"That would come from her training with Ser Rory Gilmore, I'm sure."

He knew that name. That was the knight Duncan had gone to Highever to see in the first place.

"Right, the knight," Alistair said. "What, um, happened to him?"

Duncan frowned and Alistair immediately regretted the question. Duncan didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve, but Alistair knew him well enough to tell when he was truly troubled. Duncan had only shared frustratingly vague information about what had happened at the Castle that night. But he couldn't help being curious, especially after what Elissa had said at the Joining.

Duncan cleared his throat, and Alistair became aware of just how long he'd been waiting for Duncan's reply.

"I am sure he's dead, like the rest of the household." His face was pale, somber. "I suppose that's the best we can hope for any of those that we left," he added quietly.

Alistair couldn't help it. He knew that it would probably better not to ask—better to remain ignorant of whatever horrors Duncan and the Cousland family had been privy to. But it seemed important to know.

"What happened that night?"

Duncan sighed. "It was all rather expertly planned."

He told Alistair how the attack had been executed. How they'd waited to attack until after Elissa's brother, Fergus, had left with all of the Teryn's men to join them at Ostagar. How merciless the attackers had been, cutting down both soldier and civilian alike, with no quarter given to even the innocent elven servants.

"I was lucky, I suppose," Duncan mused. He told Alistair how he'd awoken in the middle of the night from a dream, and unable to sleep had decided to wander the open aired halls of the castle.

"I can only assume if I'd stayed asleep in my room for ten minutes longer my heart would have been stopped by an assassin's dagger." He shook his head. "As it was, I was too late to save the Teryn."

The man looked truly sad. "It's just a reminder of how fragile this whole effort is." He looked again at Elissa, and said thoughtfully. "I took a gamble, choosing Elissa over Rory, but I think it was the right choice."

Alistair cocked his head to the side, confused. "What do you mean?"

Duncan looked at him. "When I was searching for the Teryn during the attack, I found Gilmore at the front gates. He and a few other knights were trying their best to hold the rest of Howe's men at the door. When I came to him, I thought about ordering him to abandon his post, and come with me. He was a promising recruit, and I think he would have made an outstanding warden."

"So why didn't you?"

"I almost did, but when he saw me, he urged me to go find the Teryn and his family." He shook his head. "'Find her. Please.' Those were his last words to me. I knew he wouldn't leave his post. Quite romantic, don't you think?"

Alistair sat back in his chair feeling winded.  _The poor girl_. He looked again at Elissa with renewed pity.  _Find her. Please_.

"So were they . . ." he started with a whisper.

Duncan shook his head. "I don't think so." He said the words with a finality that Alistair understood to mean  _and it's also none of your business_.

He supposed that was true. He looked at Elissa again as she stirred in her sleep. Her face contorted into a grimace, as if in the grips of an awful dream.

Duncan rose to his feet and walked over to her.

"It won't be long now," he said. Alistair stood and took the two steps to join him. They both stared down at the woman who was starting to make small, agitated noises.

"Soon you will no longer be the junior Warden," Duncan said with a friendly smile. Alistair couldn't help the troubled look from returning to this face. Duncan saw and furrowed his brow.

"You're troubled."

Again Alistair warred with himself over whether to say anything at all. Perhaps he was just being soft and sentimental because the latest recruit was a young, pretty girl. If it had been the doughy and slow Jory lying there right now, would he have felt so sympathetic?

It was useless to wonder, he decided. Duncan was looking at him quizzically now, so he might as well fess up to his reservations.

"It's just . . ." he began, trying to think of the best way to put it. "She just  _really_  does not want to be here."

Duncan chuckled softly. "I know."

Alistair shrugged. "So . . . why make her? She doesn't want to be a Warden. Why force it?"

Duncan raised his eyebrows at Alistair. "You're not suggesting that the Wardens only recruit from the willing are you? You know that's not how we operate—"

"I know, it's just—"

"We're facing a Blight, Alistair. I trust you know by now just how dire that is." Elissa was moving more now, arms and legs twitching together. "Our numbers in Ferelden are not so numerous that I could bypass such a promising recruit."

"I suppose."

"What else could I have done?" Duncan said, more to himself than to Alistair, it seemed. "Set her free? To go where? Who can she trust? I'm sure I don't know." He shook his head and turned again to Alistair.

"I had hoped you would be able to . . ." he broke off, interrupted by a scream from Elissa.

Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp, choking off her next scream in her throat. She looked around like a cornered animal for a second, and Alistair feared for a moment that she was going to run.

"It is finished. Welcome."

Duncan's voice seemed to catch her attention, and Elissa's eyes settled on the two of them. He saw recognition flit across her face as the memory of whom they were, and where she was, returned.

Her normal scowl, however, did not. Instead, she looked dazed, with wide, wide eyes—like she'd seen a ghost. Finally, her gaze settled on the ground near their feet.

Alistair looked, too. The bodies of Jory and Daveth had been removed, but the blood on the ground was still fresh.

"Two more deaths." Her gaze returned to him. "In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was . . . horrible. I'm glad at least one of you made it through." He hoped she heard his sincere relief in his tone.

He extended his hand to help her rise. She looked at it for a second and then he remembered how she'd ignored his hand before. She took it this time, though, and stood. Her face was pale.

"How do you feel?"

Duncan managed to sound both concerned and official, Alistair thought. It seemed to help, at least a bit. Elissa straightened and looked down at her hand, which he was surprised to discover was still in his own. She realized this too, and jerked it out quickly without meeting his eyes.

"It's over. I'm fine." She crossed her arms against herself and looked around. In spite of her words, Alistair thought she still looked dazed—her entire countenance suggested shock and disbelief.

It must have been the dreams. He could sympathize. The dreams he had right after his Joining had been terrible and frightening. He couldn't really recall the specifics, but the feeling of dread that permeated them—he couldn't forget that.

"Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams after my joining."

She turned to look at him. He thought she might speak, but she just stared at him. Whether she couldn't find the words, or just didn't want to speak to him about it, he couldn't tell. But her green eyes were focused on him for the moment, and he found himself a bit lost in both them.

_You are such a sodding sap._

Duncan spoke before Elissa could form a reply, cutting off the discussion with an authoritative tone.

"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the Darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come."

Right. They had things to do. Suddenly Alistair remembered the amulet in his pocket.

"Before I forget, there is one last part of your Joining," he said, running his thumb over the face of the amulet. "We take some of the blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us . . . of those who didn't make it this far."

He felt a blush threaten to creep over his cheeks as he held out the pendant to Elissa. It felt like a weirdly intimate gesture between strangers.

Thankfully, she took it, and didn't leave it dangling from his fingertips. Her fingers brushed his as she took the necklace from his hand, and she looked up at him at the touch. He was surprised to find her wearing an expression of frank curiosity, instead of an angry glare, as she normally did.

"Take some time," Duncan spoke, and Elissa's gaze flitted over to the other man. Alistair dropped his arm and took a step back, relieved at the loss of eye contact. Elissa's gaze had started to grow intense and uncomfortable.

"When you are ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king," Duncan was saying. Alistair looked over curiously.

"What kind of meeting?" Elissa asked, brows furrowed once again into her customary wary expression. But this time Alistair found himself sharing her wariness. What did the king want with Elissa anyway?

She had told him of the king's promise to turn his troops northward after the battle of Ostagar. A promise he had no business making, as far as Alistair was concerned.

It didn't help that she spoke of the king in a tone that suggested a closer intimacy to the crown than he knew she really had. She'd only just met the man earlier that day, for Andraste's sake.

The irony of her trying to impress him with her relationship to the king was not lost on Alistair.

"The king is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle. I am not sure why he has requested your presence," Duncan offered as explanation, and turned to go. "The meeting is to the west, down the stairs." He pointed as he began walking away. "Please attend as soon as you are able."

Perhaps the King would try to keep Elissa out of the upcoming battle? Alistair doubted Duncan would care for that kind of meddling from the crown.

He turned back to see Elissa touch her hand to her hair in a gesture he recognized at once as self-consciousness. She tried to smooth her hair down, and then winced in horror at the state of it. It dawned on him that it was the first time he'd seen her show any awareness of her current disheveled state.

 _She wants to look pretty for the king_.Alistair tried to ignore the bitterness that welled up at the thought.

She was looking at him again, he realized too late.  _Blast it._ She'd caught him staring at her. No doubt she was about to turn red and say something cutting.

"If the king wants to see you and Duncan, you probably shouldn't keep him waiting," he said quickly, before she could react. He turned to go, but not before saying in the most sarcastic tone he could manage, "He might get mad, start crying, you'll feel bad, and. . . well, it won't be pretty."

He thought he heard what could have been a small snort of laughter at that, but he didn't turn around to see, turning instead to follow Duncan into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Elissa blinked at the back of the retreating Warden, surprised at the snort of laughter that had just escaped her lips.

_Impertinent._

She shouldn’t have laughed. It wasn’t proper to speak so of the King.

She looked down at the amulet in her hand. It felt warm in her hands. For a moment her breath caught, as she imagined that it was actually emanating heat. 

_“We take some of the blood and put it in a pendant. . .”_

There was Darkspawn blood in it. She remembered how it burned her mouth and throat when she choked it down.

It tasted awful—worse than rotten, beyond foul. In an instant the taste returned to her mouth and she felt herself gagging, the involuntary urge nearly overcoming her. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them, feeling the stone on the bauble dig into her hand.

_It’s just warm from his hand._

She relaxed, and the urge to vomit left her. She looked again at the bauble. That foul liquid wasn’t just in her necklace, she realized with a jolt. It was in her now, too.

_”Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed.”_

Forever changed, Duncan had said. But how? What did that mean? Did she feel any different?

Alistair had said something about being able to sense Darkspawn, hadn’t he? She took a moment to see if she could sense anything, but realized quickly that she had no idea how to even try. She supposed she’d have to ask him.

That thought brought her up short. She’d have to ask him about being a Grey Warden, she realized, because she had, against all her wishes, actually become one.

She looked at the blood on the stones at her feet.

_All dead. All but me._

_Again._

She felt herself start to go numb at the realization. _Two more deaths_.

She thought about Jory’s wife, back in Highever, and the babe that would never know his father. Who would even tell them? Would the Wardens? Would it fall to her?

She felt she should stumble under the weight of so much death. It wasn’t fair, she decided. She found herself envious of the two men who had died instead of her last night.

 _At least they are at peace,_ she thought bitterly. _At least they don’t have to face . . ._

She couldn’t even name it to herself. When she thought of the great beast from her dream, her blood went cold. All she had to do was close her eyes, and the dragon was there, it’s incomprehensible whispers filling her mind, poisoning what was left of her sanity and leaving her numb with terror.

“The Archdemon,” she whispered aloud to no one.

She gulped as her mouth went dry. She had dreamt of the Archdemon. And she didn’t know why, couldn’t really explain it but . . . she knew now: this wasn’t just a large Darkspawn raid.

This was a Blight.

This was a Blight, and she was a Grey Warden. Up until that dream, she had held out hope, she realized. She thought the King’s promises _meant_ something. That if she could just survive the next couple of days, she’d be on her way back to Highever, back to reclaim what was hers and deliver swift justice to Howe and his ilk.

But now, holding the cooling amulet in her hand, the memory of a nightmare and the taste of something wicked on her tongue, she was filled with an utter and final sort of dread.

She was never going home again.

***^*^*^*^*^*^**

Elissa wandered through camp, seeing the people in it through new eyes.

When she first arrived at Ostagar, she had felt relieved to be around other people again, if only to break the monotony after days of silently marching behind Duncan.

All the people and activity had quickly overwhelmed her, however. She’d never been around so many people she didn’t know. As she had wandered around, she acutely felt her solitude. It dawned on her that she had almost never gone out in public by herself.

She’d nearly always had Rory with her. Sometimes her brother or her father, but she never went about unaccompanied. She hadn’t ever really considered the fact until now. It made her feel young and foolish . . . and not at all very safe.

 “I guess congratulations are in order.”

She started at the cheerful voice, and then turned and saw a young man smiling down at her. She stared at him uncomprehending for a few moments, and the grin on his face faltered.

“You . . . uh, you passed your test, right?” He cocked his head to the side. “You’re the newest Grey Warden?”

Elissa continued to stare, startled out of speech as she was. She wasn’t used to being addressed in such a familiar manner by complete strangers. When she finally spoke, she wanted to cringe at how shrill her voice sounded to her ears.

“Who are you, and why are you speaking to me?”

“Uh,” the lad gaped at her a moment, clearly not expecting such a response. “I’m sorry,” he recovered, and continued on gamely with another smile. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Carver.”

He stood there, looking at her expectantly. She didn’t respond. He leaned forward and said under his breath, “It’s your turn, now.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. She’d been waiting for him to continue with a “from suchandsuch arling” or at least a “of House Ferelden Family” or something like that. But he was looking at her now as if she might be a little stupid, and it made her face start to warm.

“My name,” she said haltingly, “. . . is Elissa.”

“Well,” the stranger gave her a big smile and extended his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Elissa.”

She looked at his outstretched hand a moment before extending hers in return and barely touching his with the tips of her fingers. She snatched her hand back immediately.

“I’m sorry,” she said, eager to extricate herself from the conversation. “I can’t speak now. I have a meeting with the King to get to.”

The man gave an undignified snort.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “It’s just as well. I’m on my way to have tea with the Empress of Orlais myself.”

The man’s sarcastic tone was like a slap in the face. She stared at him incredulously.

“You don’t believe me?” Her anger flared back to life.

The man rolled his eyes. “Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, just say so. It’s not like you’re going to break my heart.” He looked her up and down, and she suddenly felt as filthy and disheveled as she must have looked.

“You don’t have to go making up some ridiculous excuse,” he finished with a smirk.

Elissa’s cheeks grew hot at the indignity of it all. She opened and closed her mouth, unable to think of a retort, when suddenly it struck her: of course he wouldn’t believe her. Why should he? Who was she to him, but a nameless Grey Warden?

She wasn’t Lady Elissa Cousland anymore. And it wasn’t until that moment that she fully realized just how much that name had sheltered her.

No one would have dared speak to her this way in Highever.  Oh, if they had dared—what Rory would have done. She could have laughed at the thought if it didn’t also make her ache with sadness.

 A girl, covered in dirt, with no name or bodyguard to hide behind.

_Stop this._

She shook her head angrily at where her thoughts had taken her, furious at this insolent young man for sparking them.

“I _do_ have a meeting with the King,” she said. She then narrowed her eyes and added, “ . . . _and_ I also don’t want to talk to you.”

It was the stranger’s turn to turn red in the face. He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned and fled before he could.

***^*^*^*^*^*^**

Elissa shivered and pulled her cloak around her arms more tightly. It helped a bit, but the chill wind still snuck in underneath it to make goose bumps rise on the flesh of her bare legs. She started to think about her warm winter clothes—all beautifully crafted and tailored to fit her like a glove—she’d left behind in Highever, but stopped when images of Howe’s men tearing apart her possessions rose up instead.

She sighed. It was always like this. She was always trying to avoid thinking of something else.

Right now, as she was standing next to Alistair, she was trying not to think about how annoyed and angry he obviously was with his current assignment.

Of course, he wasn’t making that particularly easy. He stood there making last minute adjustments to his armor, silently but effectively radiating petulance with every harsh movement of his body.

She sighed. She hated to admit it, but she had been relieved when Caillan had assigned her and Alistair to light the beacon together.

She hadn’t been afraid of the Darkspawn when she faced them in the Korcari Wilds, but the dreams after her Joining filled her with dread. She had no desire to face the monsters again so soon.

Unfortunately, Alistair hadn’t taken it well. She felt guilty as she watched him ready his armor for an errand that would likely pose little need for it. She hadn’t realized the assignment would upset him so. 

“I’m sorry, Alistair.”

He looked up at her sharply, and Elissa realized that it was the first time she’d said his name out loud. He seemed surprised that she knew it.

He turned back to tightening the strap on his bracer with a studious sort of disinterest.

“For what?”

She took a deep breath before continuing.

“It’s my fault you’re being kept out of the battle to protect me. I know you’d rather be with the Wardens on the . . . ” she glanced at the soldiers who were now quickly running by to get into position for the upcoming battle. “. . . battlefield.”

He frowned at the metal of his bracer for a long moment before lowering his arm and reaching for his helm. He grabbed it and then turned to her with a sudden grin.

“How do you know you’re not the one protecting me, hmm?” He put the helm over his head and then shrugged. “You’re pretty scary with those knives. What makes you think you need protecting?”

Elissa exhaled with frustration. She was trying to apologize, and he was making jokes.

“Don’t be _ridiculous_ ,” she started to hiss, but then caught herself. She had realized since waking up from her Joining that she’d been treating everyone around her like people she’d never see again after a matter of days. But now . . . it might be prudent to be just a bit friendlier to the only person in this mysterious organization who had shown any sort of real kindness to her.

She took another breath before beginning again. “I just . . . I just wanted you to know. I’m sorry.” She felt her cheeks start to redden at her fumbling apology.

He seemed to sense her frustration, and dropped the joking grin. He looked around before taking a step toward her.

“Look, I appreciate the thought, but really. It’s not your fault I’ve been kept out of this battle. Alright?” he said under his breath.

Elissa raised her eyebrows. His tone had finality to it, suggesting the matter was over; settled. Well, that was just as well. At least his annoyance hadn’t been directed at her.

“Are you ready?” he asked, looking down at her.

She looked up at him. He was wearing the barbarian helm they’d found in the Korcari Wilds. The thing was rather large, and sported two menacing looking horns at the top of it. _You look ridiculous._  She found herself wanting to tell him that, wanting to say it with a laugh and get one from him in return.

She frowned instead, her heart aching at the notion. That’s what she’d have said to Fergus or Rory wearing that hat, and they’d have laughed with her about it, and then . . .

But he wasn’t Fergus. Or Rory. He was a Warden, same as Duncan.

_Same as me, now._

“You went through the Joining,” she said aloud, suddenly. It was a statement, not a question, but Alistair, after a curious pause, gave a nod.

“Yes.”

She wanted to talk to him about the dreams, about his own Joining, about so many things, but she felt shy and awkward all of a sudden. She knew hardly anything about this man. She hadn’t bothered to ask him any questions about himself, and had only barely listened to the information he had provided her. It felt strange to confide in him about something so deeply terrifying, which made her feel so full of despair.

“So you knew, from the minute you met me that I could die?” she said suddenly, surprising even herself at the thought. “You could have told me.”

It was amazing how quickly her resentment and anger could return. It was easier than dealing with . . . other things.

She saw his shoulders slouch at her accusation and felt a pang of guilt. She was doing it again.  Antagonizing the one person she was counting on to keep her safe.

“No,” he said simply, standing up and picking up his shield. “I couldn’t.”

He didn’t let her argue. Instead he simply turned and started walking to the bridge.

“Let’s go,” he said over his shoulder. “If we wait too long, you won’t be able to swing a dead cat without hitting a Darkspawn.”

The thought stopped her in her tracks. _Darkspawn._ She looked around the camp. Ever since she’d woken from her dream she had felt more . . . _present_. She noticed things more, instead of going about in a dull haze, barely seeing beyond her own feet. As she looked around, she saw the hurried motions that characterized the movements of everyone around her. The camp was preparing for battle.

In spite of all the activity, it was quieter than it had been since she arrived. A nervous hush had seemed to descend over the camp in anticipation for the battle that was drawing ever closer.

 “Wait,” she called, running after Alistair. He slowed his pace but didn’t stop or turn around. As she jogged over to him, she found herself jostled by another soldier running past her to get into position, and stumbled forward into Alistair, slamming her forehead into the shield at his back.

“Ow!” Her hand went to her forehead, and she saw stars before landing on her behind with a _thud_.

He was at her side in an instant, helping her hobble to her feet. He held her arm as she took a few steps before sitting down on the stump of a nearby tree.

Tears had sprung to her eyes at the impact, and Elissa found herself once again fighting for control over her emotions. She hadn’t cried in days, but it wouldn’t take much to send her over the edge. The involuntary tears threatened to turn into something worse if she didn’t get a handle of herself.

She breathed through her mouth and looked up at Alistair.

She could see his eyes through the slits of the crazy helm he was wearing. His expression—so worried and caring—was at once incongruous with the intimidating and barbaric horns of his helm.

“You look ridiculous in that hat,” she said with a breathy laugh. His eyes widened at her sudden change in demeanor, but he recovered from his surprise quickly.

“What? You don’t think it looks intimidating?” he said with mock sincerity, eyes twinkling humorously back at her.

She snorted a laugh that turned into a sigh, and then rested her head in her hands, trying to catch her breath. She sat up and then gently touched her fingers to her forehead and winced. The knot that was already forming there was tender and painful to the touch.

She gave Alistair a pathetic look.

“The battle hasn’t even started and I’m already injured,” she said, trying to match his joking tone. She feared she just sounded weak and shaky.

He frowned and knelt next to her, looking into her eyes, one at a time. She realized that he was checking her for signs of a head injury.

She shook her head. “I’m fine, Alistair,” she said, managing to sound stronger this time. “Really.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Alistair looked at Elissa. Her pupils were fine—and she’d reassured him she was alright. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had half expected to be blamed for the ugly looking knot on her forehead, but she looked more chagrined than resentful.

She had seemed different to him since waking up from the Joining. Not friendly—he wouldn’t go that far. But she’d actually initiated a conversation or two with him, and gave more than one word answers when she was spoken too.

It was a more than welcome change after the drama of the Joining. It made him remember just how horrible this whole situation had to be for her. He felt suddenly guilty.

“You know, it’s me that should say I’m sorry. Not just for acting like a child about being kept out of battle, either.” He watched as her brow knit back together at his words—though more in confusion than ire, he thought.

He took a deep breath and went on before she could stop him. “I’m deeply sorry for what happened to you, Elissa—for what was done to you. It’s . . . no one should have to go through that. I should have said that right from the beginning.”

He said the words all in a rush, and then held his breath. He had been surprised at how much he’d meant them.

She went very still, and looked at the ground. It dawned on him how it might be jarring to hear something like that out of the blue—part of him wanted to apologize for apologizing, but he had sense enough to realize that would make things worse at this point.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy with tears, and opened her mouth to speak when her eyes alighted on something in the distance, and just like that . . . her entire demeanor changed. A look of pure joy passed over her face. Alistair boggled at her complete transformation, before she leaped to her feet and ran right past him.

“Prince!” he heard her cry, and then he turned to see her kneel in the dirt, enthusiastically petting the massive head of a mabari war hound, who was wagging his tail so excitedly Alistair wondered how he kept his balance.

He remembered Duncan mentioning a dog, but this was the first time he’d seen him.

He marveled at Elissa’s transformation. She buried her face into the wrinkly head of her hound and said “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” over and over, in a voice he’d heard some people use with their babies.

“Not him, that’s for sure.”

An Ash Warrior had appeared surrounded by at least a half dozen war hounds straining on the leads he held. It was then Alistair noticed the chewed off end to a leash on Elissa’s war hound.

The dog turned and barked at the Ash Warrior, and Alistair had to admit it sounded more like an angry retort than he would have thought a dog capable of making.

“He about took my hand off when I gave him his food!” The man shrugged and waved an angry hand at them with a growl. “He’s your problem now,” he said, before yanking at the leashes he carried and walking off.

“Don’t listen to him, Princie!” Elissa continued in her ridiculous baby voice. “You are _so_ a good boy! What does that stupid barbarian know about war hounds anyway?”

Alistair cringed at _barbarian_ and looked around, hoping there weren’t other Ash Warriors nearby to overhear and take offense. He suddenly realized how empty the camp seemed, and how quiet it had gotten.

“Elissa, come on. We need to move. I think the—“

The stillness of the night was shattered when an explosion erupted from the bridge. Elissa looked at him with wide green eyes, frozen with fear.

“—battle’s started.”

Unthinkingly, he reached out to pull her up by her arm, planning on dragging her across the bridge if he had to.

The mighty war dog gave a vicious bark and lunged at him—jaws coming frighteningly close to snapping off his fingers when Alistair pulled them away, just in time.

“Prince!” Elissa scolded, struggling to pull the dog away from Alistair. “Leave him alone! Alistair is a . . .” she stopped and her eyes darted to Alistair and then off to some spot in the distance. “. . . friend,” she muttered quietly, and Alistair would have laughed at the absurdity of it, if the sudden violence that had erupted from the battlefield wasn’t drowning out everything else.

“Come on! We have to go, _now!_ ”

The three of them ran toward the bridge to the Tower.

***********

Morrigan frowned at the two limp bodies on the ground as the shimmering magic of Flemeth’s transformation spell lit up the night. Then, the dragon was gone and Flemeth remained.

“These two?” Morrigan snorted. “Why did you bring them back here? The King would have brought more ransom—”

“There are more important things than gold, silly girl.” Flemeth cackled. “Now, make yourself useful and help me bring them inside.”

Morrigan stumbled under the weight of the comatose male warden.

_This fool is enormous._

 She half dragged, half carried the man inside, and deposited him none too gently on the hut’s floor.

“Quit your dawdling, girl. Get over here.”

Morrigan hurried to her mother’s side, who was gently laying Elissa back onto the bed. The girl’s head lolled to one side and her skin was pale—almost blue. The front of her fine leather tunic was covered in blood, and at least four, _no_ five arrows protruded from her chest and abdomen. She placed her fingers on the girl’s neck: a faint pulse still beat within.  She could be saved.

She got to work. Morrigan had no healing skill herself, but she could help remove the arrows, and clean the wounds.

“Hurry child,” Flemeth urged as she gathered her magical energies.

Morrigan looked at her mother in concern. She’d already spent untold amounts of mana retrieving the young wardens and transporting them here. And Flemeth was not young.

“Do you need lyrium?”

“Nonsense.” Flemeth grabbed her wrist, painfully. She could do nothing but watch and writhe as her mother pulled what Morrigan had left for mana out of her. “You won’t be needing it anyway,” Flemeth said as she released her.

Morrigan stumbled backward.  She grabbed the edge of the bed for support and rocked it, jostling the occupant.

“Be still, fool!” Flemeth snarled before resuming her spell.

Morrigan breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Her mother was right. She had no healing magic. Her mana would be wasted otherwise. But, being sucked of her mana left her feeling hollow and brittle. She shook her head and took another deep breath before opening her eyes and focusing on Elissa.

She needed to get the arrows out.

With her small dagger, she cut away at Elissa’s armor. Peeling blood soaked leathers from the girl’s chest revealed nasty, gaping wounds surrounded by skin that was quickly turning a sickening shade of yellow green.

“Poison, mother.”

If Flemeth heard her she gave no indication of it.

Morrigan placed a hand on the young woman’s chest, near her left breast. She looked at her face. The woman had no reaction to her touch, which Morrigan supposed was a kindness, since this would otherwise hurt. A lot.

She wrapped her hand around the arrow shaft as close to the skin as possible. She gave a quick internal count to three, and then pulled.

The arrow came out clean and left a gaping hole. Too sluggishly for Morrigan’s liking, it filled with blood. She looked at her mother.

Flemeth’s face was a cool mask as she looked into the distance, seeing nothing. _Or everything._ Morrigan was never sure. The old woman chanted under her breath. Her hands were ever moving just above Elissa’s body, weaving intricate runes in the air.

Morrigan looked again at the wound and saw the skin begin to knit together. She grabbed a clean rag, and started wiping the blood away, revealing smooth uninjured skin underneath.

She quickly turned her attention to the rest of the arrows, and one by one, pulled them free. She was cutting away the last of Elissa’s armor when she heard a noise behind her.

“Maker’s breath!”

Morrigan whirled at the sound. The other Warden was coming to his senses by the door. He struggled to stand. Morrigan’s movement revealed the half-naked woman behind her.

His eyes went wide. “Is she…?”

Morrigan turned back to the girl. “She does still breathe. Leave us be and she may live longer.”

Flemeth stirred. “Nonsense. Go to him girl. You’re little help to me now, and he may have injuries.”

“But, mother…”

“Go!”

“Fine.” Morrigan slammed the bowl on the table and stalked toward the man. “Move.”

He spared another baleful look at the girl, fear lining his features, before sitting where Morrigan indicated, back facing the bed.

“Take that off.”

He stared dumbly back at her. “What?”

Morrigan sighed impatiently. “Your armor. Remove it. I need to see your injuries.”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

Morrigan glared at him. “You don’t know that. You could have a broken rib, internal bleeding.” She gestured impatiently. “Just take it off so we can get this over with and I can go back to treating your friend.”

The mention of his friend seemed to spark some kind of comprehension in the man, because his hands slowly moved to remove his splint-mail armor. He undid the left side bracers methodically, but when he turned to his right side the sharp stab of pain the movement caused made him gasp involuntarily and freeze.

Morrigan gave an exasperated growl and bent down to him. “Let me,” she said, irritably. He mutely obeyed, holding out his arm so she could undo his right side.

He lifted his arms to allow Morrigan to remove the splint mail chest piece over his head. She pulled and it caught on his left side, eliciting another gasp of pain. She impatiently repeated the procedure with his shirt, and then leaned closer to inspect his bruised left side.

Her cold fingers on his skin seemed to bring him to a greater awareness. He looked around the hut, at Morrigan, and then down at his own naked chest. A faint blush started to creep up the man’s face as he seemed to realize his own state of undress and his proximity to Morrigan. He stiffened and recoiled from her touch.

Morrigan had little qualms about nudity, but she recognized Alistair’s discomfort and concluded the cause. She had no patience for inconvenient and trivial mores about modesty, so she snorted and sat down on the bench next to him, straddling it. She reached for his discarded shirt and started tearing it into strips to make bandages.

He tried to turn to look over his shoulder. Morrigan caught his chin with her hand and turned him to face her. “She will live,” she said matter-of-factly. “And will doubtless object to you gawking at her nakedness.”

Alistair frowned and brushed her hand away, ignoring the barb. He stared at the fire, shaking his head in confusion.

“What the hell happened?”

***********

_Choking . . . smoke in his lungs . . . heat . . . unbearable. . ._

_Green sky—worse than Korcari.  . . black dragon . . . eyes like a void. . ._

Alistair’s eyes flew open, and he awoke with a gasp—the noise sounded loud and it startled him even more. He lay there blinking in darkness before turning to squint at the room’s only source of light.

He was lying on a floor, in front of a fireplace—the few embers that remained in it provided a warm orange glow. Little that it was, the light was enough to make him squint and bathe the rest of the room in blackness.

He turned his head the other way, willing his eyes to adjust.

_The hut . . . the wilds . . . the witches . . ._

He sat up suddenly and looked around. Beyond the fireplace he saw a table, a chair . . . a bed. His chest tightened.

_Elissa._

He found himself straining to hear if she breathed. He couldn’t hear it over his own and the harder he tried, the more he started to panic that he wouldn’t.

_What if it wasn’t enough what if she died in the middle of the night—_

He tried to calm himself by taking deep breaths, drawing on his Templar training for discipline.

_Arrows sprouting from her chest: first one, then two, then an impossible amount. Her eyes round, her lips formed into a surprised “O” as she finally stumbled backwards . . . dead._

He had been so sure of it. But the witches said she would live.

_Quiet. Focus._

It took a few seconds, but once he trusted himself to rise and not make _too_ much noise, he did so, slowly. He surveyed the room. His eyes were finally adjusting to the dark, and he saw that they were alone. Where the witches were, he had no clue.

He crept over to the bed. A swath of moonlight from the partially shuttered window fell on her, dividing her in half. He saw that her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm and at once he felt his own chest lighten, relief suddenly making him feel faint.

He sat in a chair that had been left by the bed, put head in his hand, and drank in the sight of her. It comforted him more than he could justify. He didn’t even know her. Wasn’t even very sure he _liked_ her.

But she was the _only_ person he had left in the entire world—the only other person that could understand his loss.

_All dead._

Alistair still couldn’t believe what the swamp witch had said was true. Loghain?  A <i> _traitor?_ </i> It was . . . it was mind boggling—beyond all understanding. He had fiercely denied its possibility when she first told him what happened—that Loghain quit the field, abandoning Cailan and Duncan to die . . .

_Duncan._

His face crumpled and he held his breath, trying not to make the choking sob that was caught in his throat. He looked at Elissa. She was still sleeping, breathing steadily. He rose quietly and crept back to his place on the floor, lying down and turning to face the fireplace.

He lay there, watching the fire.

It hurt _so_ much; it winded him how much. The one and only person in his entire world who had ever cared about what he wanted was gone . . . All the wardens he had met and grown to love like brothers . . . gone.

The King . . . his brother. . . gone.

The thought overwhelmed him. He buried his head in his arms and started weeping, trying his best to bury the sound of his sobs so as not to wake Elissa.

It was late into the night when, exhausted and drained of tears, he finally fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

All that time spent worrying that she would never wake up. He should have spent a little time praying that she’d not just wake up, but wake up and turn into a _reasonable person_.

He should have expected this. He should have known that her thoughts would immediately go to her brother.

He shook his head as he stood outside the hut in the Korcari Wilds, trying to talk some sense into the stubborn girl.

“ _Listen to me,_ ” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “You can’t go back to the Wilds . . . it’s crawling with Darkspawn—“

“Morrigan said the horde had moved on,” Elissa countered. She stood in front of him in a defiant stance, fingertips of one hand resting lightly on her hound’s back.

He’d been pacing nervously in the yard after being kicked out by Morrigan for asking one time too many why Elissa hadn’t woken up yet, worried that she never would (he had heard of such a thing before) when the door to the small hut had opened with a bang and Elissa emerged, looking not at all like a person who had taken six arrows to the chest the night before.

He had been overjoyed at the sight of her; had stepped up and started babbling at her before he noticed how restless she looked. When she informed him of her plans, he didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“You don’t even know where to look—“ he started again, feeling helpless.

“I have Prince with me. He _found me_ , Alistair,” he looked up at her at the rare use of his name; saw her pointed glare. “He can help me track my brother.”

He had to admit. The hound’s feat had been extraordinary. He assumed the beast had perished after being left at the tower when the old woman rescued them. The fact that he had managed to track the pair all the way back here . . . Alistair would have thought it impossible—just as unlikely as their own survival, he supposed.

He made a frustrated sigh. He had been relieved when the hound had shown up in the early hours of the morning because he knew the hound would bring Elissa a lot of comfort and security. He wouldn’t have felt so if he had realized what the mabari’s presence would embolden Elissa to attempt.

“But. . . he had your trail didn’t he?” he managed at last. “Won’t he need something of your brother’s? To track him?” Alistair raised his hands, making a wide gesture. “You don’t even know where to start!”

Her gaze flitted back the edge of the wilds, and then to him before she looked down. In a flash of insight, Alistair realized that she _did_ know where to start—knew one place where the smart mabari could pick up her brother’s scent. _Oh no . . ._

 “You don’t mean . . . that is even _crazier_. You can’t go back to Ostagar! Are you insane? Do you _want_ to die?”

“No!”

The forcefulness of her reply made him jerk his head sharply to look at her. She was scowling down at her hands, refusing to meet his eye.

“That question was rhetorical,” he said after a moment, fear starting to gnaw its way through his belly.

She stood very still.

“I know,” she said, quietly. She took a deep breath and then continued, finally meeting his gaze. “I know I might die,” he started to interrupt and she shook her head, correcting herself before he could speak “maybe _will_ die. I _know that._ ” It was awful to hear her say it out loud. He feared what she would say next.

“But I have to do this, don’t you understand?” She pleaded with him with her eyes, and looking into them he saw no trace of the ire and irritation usually found there. Instead, all he saw in those large green eyes was desperation. He could relate.

“I’ve left too many people behind already.” At that she choked; the tears streaking down her dirty face. She held her head high and kept her gaze on him through her tears, however. Still proud; unyielding.

“I get it,” he said, trying to think of something he could say in response to that. “I do but . . .” He’d been so worried at the idea of her never waking up. He’d never considered for a moment that she would want to leave him.

He couldn’t look at her, had to look away to try and hide the abject misery that was overtaking him in this moment. He wondered if there was anything he could say to convince her. How many different ways could he tell her that her plan was insane?

He would just have to . . . beg.

He turned to look at her and let the desperation he felt travel to his face.

“So, what you’re just going to leave? What about me?” He hated the plaintive whine he heard in his own voice, but he couldn’t help it.

The surprise on her face just made him feel even more pitiable. She wiped her face with her hand. “I did not think—“

“About me,” he finished for her in a petulant mutter, again hearing the bitterness that seeped into his words and hating himself for it. He felt ridiculous, standing here begging this woman he barely knew not to abandon him. _Like everyone else in my life._ He stared down at their feet.

“I did not think to _risk your life_ for this,” she corrected, somewhat more gently than he would have expected. He couldn’t meet her gaze, not after that pitiable display. But he felt her eyes on him nevertheless. “I won’t have anyone else dying on my behalf.”

 _Oh._ That was a little better.

“Ahhh, to have lost so much,” Flemeth murmured, and Alistair looked up to see the mysterious old woman watching the two of them. Elissa looked up too, turning her head sharply to stare at the old woman. “It would be difficult not to cling to hope, however faint. You two have much in common.”

Elissa seemed to consider the old woman’s words thoughtfully, darting her glance back to him for a moment, before looking away, contemplating something in the distance for a good long while.

“Alright . . .”she started, and he looked up hopefully, hearing a different tone in her voice. His chest thumped to life. She gave him the barest hint of a smile. “You can come with me back to Ostagar.”

He stared at her incredulously a moment before throwing his head back in a dramatic sigh. Her continued _stubbornness_ helped strip away some of his desperation and misery, replaced increasingly with irritation and frustration.

She was still stuck on this insane plan.

He took a deep breath. He had to calm down and _think_.

 “Of course,” the old woman spoke up before he could. “Someone else will realize what needs to be done and act in time and with sufficient sense to solve the problem. No need for you.”

Her sarcastic tone was not lost on Elissa, who immediately bristled.

“What in the world do you expect us to do?” she said, throwing her hands wide. “You saw what happened. The King is dead. All the Grey Wardens . . . it’s over.” She crossed her arms to her chest and shrugged.

“No! I can’t accept that! We can’t just give up!”

She looked up at him as if _he_ were the crazy one now. “Alistair, we lost. The Wardens are no more . . .What do you expect us to do Alistair? We’re just two people!”

“If you think small numbers make you helpless, you are already defeated.”

Elissa gave the old woman a look of withering insolence that would have rivaled Alistair’s best back in his days of being educated in the Chantry. “We _are_ defeated,” she glared back at the old woman. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

Alistair could see that it wasn’t working. He could see the way her eyes kept darting to the forest as they spoke, like she was contemplating making a run for it, mid-argument. He imagined her bolting for the edge of the Wilds . . . She was fast. She could run and he’d never catch her.

He had to think of _something._

“This isn’t what Fergus would want.” Her head snapped up and the dangerous glare she offered him let him know he had hit his target with the words.

“You don’t even know him. Don’t presume to—“

“Think about it, Elissa,” he said, cutting her off before she could get too worked up. He felt a bit sick to his stomach at the thought of manipulating her like this, but she had left him no choice. “Right now he thinks you and the rest of his family are safe and sound in Highever.”

She gasped at his words, sucking in a breath like he’d just hit her in the stomach. He hated doing this, but he couldn’t afford to be kind.

“Don’t you think that gives him comfort? Knowing his family is safe at home?” he pressed on, daring to take a step toward her, watching as her nostrils flared at his words, as she tried to keep her face still.

“His family _isn’t_ safe and sound in Highever,” she hissed back at him through clenched teeth. “You know that. Why would you say such a thing?” She sounded hurt, on the verge of tears again.

“Because, _think!_ How is he going to feel once he finds out what happened? And then he finds out that you _survived_ , only to die chasing him in the Wilds?”

He saw as she sucked in another breath and blinked away tears that he had gotten through—at least some small part of what he was saying finally reached her. She wiped away the tears that had relented in falling with an angry swipe of her hand.

“Maker, take you,” she muttered.

“You _know_ I’m right. If it were _my_ sister, the last thing I would want would be for her to traipse after me, trying to get herself killed—”

She had been staring at the ground, fighting and losing the silent battle against her own tears, but she looked up at him sharply at _sister._

“You have a sister?” He saw something in her eyes at the question—some spark of hope or trust or _something_ that seemed to hinge on whether or not he had a sister.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. He _did_ have a sister, and he _would_ feel terrible if, by some crazy circumstance, she were ever faced with the possibility of trying to find him in the Korcari Wilds well . . . he wouldn’t want that. However, whatever light that appeared in Elissa’s eyes at the word “sister,” he had a feeling wouldn’t be there if she knew it was a sister he had never even met, let alone knew . . .

But it worked. He saw her face soften, saw the stubbornness leave the set of her shoulders and she gave in, at long last, _thank the Maker_.

“So,” she said at last, eyes rolled to the heavens. “I’m not saying that I’m on board or anything but . . .” she turned to look at both Alistair and Flemeth. “Say I don’t go look for my brother and instead I stay,” she looked up at him and then looked away “with you. What then?”

Alistair’s heart raced. He had an answer, for once.

“Well . . . whatever Loghain’s insanity, he obviously thinks the Darkspawn are a minor threat. We must warn everyone this isn’t the case.”

Both the old woman and Elissa nodded at him. It made him feel a touch self-conscious, all of a sudden.

“Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver,” the old woman said, interrupting his line of thought. “Perhaps he does not see the evil behind it is the true threat.”

“The Archdemon,” Alistair and Elissa answered at the same time, looking at each other grimly. He wondered if she’d had the same dreams . . .

“We have to let people know,” Elissa said quietly. “Everyone thinks this is just a large raid . . .” she drifted off when she looked up to see his gaze. She flushed a little and looked away, as if embarrassed at having been caught contributing. He would have chuckled to himself if he weren’t anxious.

“And who will believe you? Unless you think to convince this Loghain of his mistake?” Flemeth interrupted the two of them to say.

Alistair snapped his fingers. He had it.

“Arl Eamon!” he shouted, startling Elissa next to him. “Of course! Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Cailan’s uncle. I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet—“

Elissa looked at him surprised. “You _know_ Arl Eamon?”

 _Of course that would impress her._ Again, he wanted to snort with laughter at the absurdity, but he brushed past it, intent on following this thread of an idea, certain he was getting somewhere . . .

“—we could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!” He saw her blink at his suggestion, saw immediately that she liked it. She remained cautious, however.

“Alright,” she said slowly. “Say we go there—he’s just one man; one arling. That’s not enough to defeat a Blight.” She closed her eyes and shuddered for a brief second, and he knew she was picturing the horde of darkspawn that had erupted over Ostagar.

She opened her eyes a second later, when Flemeth piped up. “You have more at your disposal than you think.”

Alistair’s eyes grew wide. “Of course! The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!” He looked excitedly at Elissa, trying to will some of his enthusiasm into her. She stood there unmoved, with her arms crossed. But he thought there was some glint of hope in her eyes as her gaze darted between him and Flemeth.

“I may be old,” Flemeth went on as he continued to stare at Elissa. “. . .but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else . . . this sounds like an army to me.”

Alistair couldn’t help it. He felt a thrill of excitement go through him at Flemeth’s words. He’d spent the last twelve hours in such abject grief and worry . . . it felt like they were at last _doing_ something, and it felt good.

“So can we do this?” He turned Elissa excitedly, hoping against hope that she would see reason now that they had a plan, however vague. “Go to Redcliffe and these other places and . . . build an army?

She stood there a long moment with her hands on her hips, and he could see that she was thinking, turning it over in her mind by the way she looked at him . . . considering; evaluating.

“It’s always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to stand against a Blight,” he appealed to her one last time. “And right now, we’re the Grey Wardens.”

He held his breath and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity of staring, she gave an abrupt shrug. “We are likely all going to die,” she said raising her eyebrows in apparent black humor. “So I suppose we might as well try and stop the Blight while we’re here.”

The pale green Korcari sky was just as overcast as it had ever been, but later Alistair would swear that the clouds had parted, that the sun had shown down on them in a heavenly display of the Maker’s grace and love when she spoke those few words to him, and he just about fainted in relief.

“I could hug you,” he muttered, and then added when her eyes widened in surprise. “I won’t. But I could. Or I would, you know. If I didn’t think you or your dog would kill me for it.”

Flemeth snorted next to them, interrupting his nervous babbling.  “So you are finally set then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

“ _A Cousland always does her duty_ ,” Elissa muttered, sounding not very pleased about it.

She shrugged at his concerned look and gave him a humorless smile. It came to him only then that the two of them would be traveling together . . . _alone_. That could be awkward. He didn’t have much experience with women, and less so with women his own age. He didn’t have too much time to contemplate it, however, before Flemeth turned to them and spoke.

“Now . . . before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

He waited expectantly, curious about what the old lady could mean, but interested nonetheless. The woman was obviously powerful, whether she was truly _the_ Flemeth or not.

So whatever help she had to offer had to be better than nothing, right?

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Hold!”

Morrigan held up a hand and stared at the Wilds ahead of them. The wardens glanced at each other and halted their movement as Elissa put a hand on Prince to keep him still.

She strained to see or hear whatever it was that Morrigan had sensed to make her stop before raising an eyebrow at Alistair quizzically. He gave her a small shake of his head.

_Not Darkspawn then._

They’d had fewer and fewer run-ins with the monstrous creatures as they had ventured north, much to Elissa’s relief. Initially they had stopped frequently and hid, using whatever magic Morrigan had from her mother to shield them.

Elissa pulled at the rough material of her newly acquired homespun shirt, disliking the way it made her skin itch. She’d just about fainted when Morrigan told her that her lovely leather armor had been cut to shreds in the battle to save her life and then offered her a chest of old clothes to rummage through. She had been afraid she’d find only scraps of cloth like Morrigan wore, so she’d been relieved to find a long sleeved shirt that fit her, along with a light chain vest to go over it.

She hated chainmail, but she supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. She wondered at first where the odd assortment of clothing had come from, but then quickly realized she didn’t want to know.

The witch turned to them abruptly and said, “Wait here,” before shifting into her bird form and flying away, leaving her clothes behind in a pile at their feet.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair swore softly beside her as she knelt to retrieve the witch’s clothes. “I will _never_ get used to that.”

Elissa chuckled softly as she rose, bundling Morrigan’s possessions in her hands. “At least you didn’t scream your fool head off when she turned into a giant spider,” she said lightly. “That was embarrassing.”

That earned her a soft snort of laughter, but then Alistair fell silent again. Elissa stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He had that look on his face again—she recognized it well. Denial, grief, anger . . . she was all too familiar with the path the young Warden was on right now.

It was kind of funny how their roles had changed overnight. Now he was the one suffering in silent grief while she tried to soldier on gamely. For some reason, watching Alistair descend into a pit of misery after leaving the hut in the Korcari Wilds helped lift Elissa out of hers. Perhaps it was mere survival instinct; the group could only afford to have one navel-gazing brooder in it at a time, and Elissa had had her turn, she supposed.

Elissa sighed and looked up at the sky. She hoped that they would be out of the Wilds soon. Now that she had committed to this impossible quest, she found herself anxious to get on with it.

She had to admit, her plan to go search for Fergus seemed foolish to her now. Alistair was right—she probably would not have survived if she had insisted on going back to Ostagar to look for him. But it was all she could think about when Morrigan told her the news—if Duncan and the rest of the Wardens were dead, no one could stop her from doing the one thing she’d wanted to do since she’d arrived two days ago.

No one but Alistair, anyway. He’d managed to find just the right words to convince her not to throw her life away on a fruitless search. She still wasn’t quite convinced that their plan was even doable. What did she know about raising an army and battling the blight? But, his proposal to go see Arl Eamon had been a sound one. Surely the Arl would know what to do.

 _Just get to Redcliffe,_ she thought. After that? She would see.

Just then a hawk came screeching out of the sky in front of them, making Prince lunge and bark before the air around the bird shimmered and Morrigan appeared, standing in front of them completely naked.

Elissa held out Morrigan’s clothes for her and risked a glance at Alistair as the witch stepped forward to retrieve them. He was studiously avoiding looking anywhere near Morrigan’s direction, a hint of red creeping up his cheeks.

 _Poor Alistair_. Elissa closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. She was convinced Morrigan was doing this on purpose, delighting in the discomfort it caused Alistair.

“So?” she asked, trying to ignore the tension among them as Morrigan got dressed. “What was that all about?”

“’Twas my suspicion that we overshot the river crossing I was looking for when we bypassed that overgrown hill,” the witch said, pulling her leather skirt over her hips. “Fortunately, we did _not_.” She gave Elissa a smug smile as she pulled her “shirt” down over her breasts.

That was all? _And for this we had to see you naked again?_ Elissa bit her lips to keep the words from fleeing them. She had learned to watch her tongue around the witch, who could be oddly prickly. She took a deep breath and let it out, not used to modulating her behavior for the benefit of others.

Of course, those “others” had never included powerful, shape-changing apostates.

“Great,” she said tightly. “Let’s go then.”

Morrigan turned on her heel and started walking away and Elissa made to follow her. A sudden growl from Prince stopped them all.

Out of habit now, both women’s heads turned to look at Alistair. He shrugged.

“Still no Darkspawn.”

Elissa frowned and looked at Prince. He was staring intently at her.

“What is it, boy?”

He barked at her and then looked back at where they had traveled, before turning his massive head to her again and giving another loud bark.

She took a step toward him; he excitedly turned in a circle and then walked a few steps back the way they had come before turning around and staring at her again.

 “You want to back to the Wilds?” He gave her an affirmative bark. She cocked her head to the side in confusion. “But, why—?”

The hound closed the distance between the two of them and then launched himself up on his back legs to paw at the shield Elissa carried on her arm, scratching at the emblem on the surface.

Elissa’s heart dropped to her stomach. _Oh god._ She turned to look at Morrigan and Alistair, who were both watching her silently, Morrigan looking bored and Alistair looking worried.

She opened her mouth to speak, but found a hard time finding the words. They weren’t going to believe her anyway.

“He wants . . .” she finally managed to start. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again and drawing her face into a scowl. “He wants to go back and look for Fergus.”

Alistair stared at her incredulously, mouth agape and eyebrows raised. “What?”

She mashed her lips in a straight line, trying not to say the biting words that begged to escape them. She breathed through her nose a second instead, flicking her gaze to Morrigan, who looked just as incredulous, but with an added mixture of impatience and contempt.

“Look,” she said after a moment. “I just need a moment to talk to him—to make him understand.”

She turned back to Prince, not waiting for a response from either of them. She heard Alistair move behind her. “You don’t really think he can understand—“ he began. Elissa snapped her head around to glower intensely at him.

Fortunately, that silenced him.

“Prince,” she said, turning back to her dog and kneeling down in the dirt to get on eye-level with him. “You heard what they said,” she indicated the others with a nod of her head, “we can’t go back there. It’s too dangerous.”

The growl/whine he gave then let her know just what he thought about that. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, I know you’re not afraid,” she said, unable to keep the slight amusement out of her voice. Then she frowned again and said more seriously, “And I know you would protect me.”

The dog barked. Of course he would.

She took another deep breath. _How can I convince him when I am barely convinced myself?_

But that wasn’t exactly true, either, was it?

“I know it’s hard,” she said lowly, fearing that her voice would crack with the sudden surge of emotion she felt. “I don’t want to leave either. I know you want to look for him.” She put her hands on either side of Prince’s head and leaned her forehead on his. “I want to look for him too. But we can’t—“

“If the stupid beast won’t come just leave him,” she heard Morrigan say behind her.

Elissa closed her eyes and counted to three, then turned her head to give Alistair a pleading look. She couldn’t deal with Morrigan’s callousness right now. He gave her a look that she thought meant he understood, and she saw him turn to Morrigan before she turned back to rest her head on Prince’s, closing her eyes.

 “Um, just give her a second,” she heard Alistair say and breathed out in relief. _Maker._ She had so many things she owed this man for already.

She thought she heard Morrigan snort and stomp off, but she didn’t look. She opened her eyes and looked at Prince again.

“Listen, you’re as much of a Warden as I am now,” she muttered. “You have probably drunk more Darkspawn blood than any of us—”

Alistair made a noise behind her but she pressed on, ignoring him.

“You saw what happened, Prince. How many of them there are . . . how many they have already killed.”

She thought of what Morrigan had told her about what was going on back at the battlefield. How few survivors there were; how the darkspawn lurked among the corpses, dragging some beneath the earth for what purpose, no one knew . . . she shuddered, and suddenly the taste of darkspawn blood filled her mouth again, and she had to fight the urge to vomit.

She shook her head fiercely to rid herself of it. She could _feel_ Alistair’s eyes on the back of her head, and she devoutly wished he wasn’t there listening to all of this. She didn’t need him to see her break down for the second time in a single day.

Prince whined again and pawed at the ground, as if to prod her to continue.

“Well, Prince,” she began again, hoping to find the words. “Alistair and me and _you_ . . . we’re the only ones that know the truth. This is Blight, and we’ve got to find a way to stop it.” She stared into her mabari’s intelligent eyes, willing him to understand. Sometimes it was a curse, having a too-smart dog for a friend.

She didn’t own him. Nobody _owned_ a mabari. He was fiercely loyal and would do anything to protect her, she knew, but he also had a mind of his own and wouldn’t just blindly obey her, much as she might like him too. So she needed to be sincere; needed to convince him that _she_ believed what she was saying.

“. . . and if we don’t,” she continued. “. . . a _lot_ more people are going to die. It’ll make what happened to us look like . . . well, it’ll be awful. We can’t let that happen. Even if that means leaving Fergus to . . .“ she bit her trembling lips, trying not to break down again. “. . . leave him _behind_. We don’t have a choice.”

Prince gave a high pitched whine and lowered his head to bump it against Elissa’s chest.

“I know,” she said, voice thick with tears. “It. . . _guts_ me to leave. You know it does,” her voice was low and breathy and she hoped Alistair couldn’t hear her. “But it’s what . . .” she swallowed, her throat suddenly a desert. “. . . it’s what _they_ would have wanted.”

Prince pulled his body back so his eyes could look into hers. He cocked his head to the side and put his paw on her arm. The sympathetic gesture was too much for her, and the sob that had been threatening to escape her throat was finally released.

“They’d be ashamed of me,” she confessed to Prince in a hoarse croak. “They’d be ashamed if I shirked my duty. This is what they wanted.” She closed her eyes yet again, remembering. “ _Our family . . . always does our duty first_ ,” she said, quoting her father’s last words to her.

 _The Darkspawn must be defeated._ He had urged her to go with Duncan as he laid there dying on the pantry floor, guts in his hands. _You must go. For your own sake and for Ferelden’s._

That was the awful truth, wasn’t it? She’d been behaving like a spoiled child ever since this fate had befallen her, denying over and over again to everyone what she knew deep down to be true: her parents had _wanted_ this fate for her, in the end.

Prince understood; she knew that now as he made a pathetic growl under her head. She wrapped her arms around him and tried to breathe out the fresh tears she felt forming, hoping to avoid a complete breakdown.

A soft cough behind her brought her back to reality. She blinked rapidly and then stood and turned to see Alistair staring at her intently.

She blushed under his scrutiny. “What?” she snapped, angrily wiping away the tears from her face.

“Nothing. I just . . .” he looked down at the ground and then up at her again, and she saw the surprise in his expression. “I didn’t know you felt that way . . . about what we’re doing.” He ended with a self-conscious shrug.

 “Why?” she pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes, feeling her anger spike up inside her. She’d given herself over to this fate and that was that. “Why did you think I came with you?” she asked sharply.

His eyes widened at the sudden question. “Oh, I just . . . I guess I thought . . .”

“You thought what?” Elissa felt her cheeks redden. Her heart was hammering in her chest. “That I came because of _you_ or something?” She saw his face redden at that, saw him start to stammer out a reply.

She wasn’t being fair, she knew. She _had_ come partly because of him—in the end his sadness had convinced her. No one could be that sad—care that much—and not have some redeeming qualities.

But she was feeling raw and exposed after baring her soul to Prince, and she didn’t like the way she found him staring at her in admiration when she turned around.

She’d done nothing to deserve it, after all.

“No!” he said, face turning impossibly red now. “I didn’t mean anything like that. _Maker’s breath,_ Elissa  
. . .” he trailed off in frustration.

She winced; the note of despair in his voice served to drain off the sharpness of her anger. It took so little to kindle it these days, but she found herself growing tired of maintaining it.

She rubbed her head and sighed. “I’m . . . _Andraste’s ass_. I’m sorry. I just . . .” She couldn’t bear to look up at him and see whether he was glaring at her in anger or . . . something else. “I’m just sorry. Again.”

“Yeah,” she heard him say and frowned, unable to interpret the tone. She looked at him under her lashes. Her heart sank at the misery she saw on his face.

_Maker._

“Alistair, I . . .” she began, but Morrigan suddenly reappeared, looking frustrated in her own right.

“Please, continue to stand here palavering while the Darkspawn horde mills about, searching for us,” she snapped at them, crossing her arms and glaring. “. . . ’Tis a brilliant idea, really.”

“Alright,” Alistair said. “We’re coming.” He looked over at Elissa briefly before brushing past Morrigan in the direction they’d been heading. Elissa sighed. His face had been unreadable. Hopefully she hadn’t done any permanent damage . . .

She looked at Morrigan to see her shaking her head disgustedly at her.

“We’re coming,” she snapped at the witch, before turning back to Prince and laying a hand on his head. She heard the witch snort and then stomp off.

Prince growled at her. Elissa looked down at him and frowned. “Don’t start . . .”

He growled again.

“I _know_ ,” she said miserably, turning to stare at the retreating figures of her companions. “I will . . . I will figure out how to get along with them, _somehow_. But for now I’d settle on just getting out of these accursed wilds. So can you please drop the mothering tone and move your ass?”

He huffed and snorted and shook his head before bounding after the others.

She exhaled a low breath before following after them herself, shooting a final glance at the Korcari Wilds and hoping she’d never see them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I just realized that I had a duplicate chapter 2 under chapter 3. That's been fixed now, and the real Chapter 3 is now in place. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

The four of them traveled in relative silence for the next hour or so, and Elissa's mood turned black again. She was sick to death of silence, having endured far too much of it lately, but she lacked the ability to crack the right joke to break the tension. She suspected Alistair could, if he had such a mind to, but he kept to himself after her outburst in the Wilds.

So when they crested a small hill overlooking the village of their destination, and Alistair finally spoke after such a long silence, Elissa was relieved to hear his light tone.

"There it is. Lothering. Pretty as a picture."

She turned to smile at him and reply, but Morrigan beat her to it.

"Ah. So you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?"

"Is my being upset so hard—" Alistair began, but Elissa didn't let him finish. She interrupted with a snarl.

" _Leave him be!"_

Both Morrigan and Alistair turned to her in surprise at the ferocity of her tone. Elissa was surprised by it, herself. She blushed at her overreaction. She had just been feeling so guilty over the last hour . . .

Morrigan glared at her and Elissa's heart sank, realizing she was pitting herself against the other woman by defending Alistair.

She looked away uncomfortably, feeling the heat of both their gazes on her.

"Anyway . . ." Alistair said slowly, and Elissa tried not to cringe at his confused tone. He must think she was just completely insane by now. "I was just thinking we should probably talk about where we intend to go after this."

Elissa's eyes snapped back to him, brow furrowing in her own confusion. "I thought we decided this already? I thought we were going to Redcliffe to see Arl Eamon?"

"Well,  _I_  think that's the best place to go next," he said, raising his shoulders and gesturing to himself. "But I don't really know. We've got all the treaties to deliver, too. Maybe we should go there first." He shrugged yet again. "I'll do whatever  _you_  decide."

Elissa's eyes widened at his words. "Why are you leaving it to  _me_? You're the senior Grey Warden. I don't know what we should do. I've been a warden for what . . ." she blinked, trying to piece the last few days together. Did she really only take the Joining last night? It seemed an  _eternity_  ago. ". . . Not even twenty-four hours!" Her voice rose of its own accord at the last few words, and she blushed at the note of panic she heard in it.

"Arl Eamon is a good man, but I don't know for sure he's where we should go. I'm not going to fight about it."

Elissa shook her head, completely baffled at his sudden reluctance to follow through on their plan. What was the point of deferring to her like this? She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She didn't know how to respond, because she couldn't even  _think_  right now.

"Why am I so blasted hungry again?" she said aloud, opening her eyes and clutching at her stomach in misery. "We just ate an hour ago."

They'd eaten dried rations—nothing too appetizing, but she had eaten until she was full, and wouldn't have expected to feel hungry again for hours.

Something flickered in Alistair's expression and Elissa was immediately suspicious.

"Is this a side effect of drinking that  _filth_?" She made a face like the word gave her a bad taste in her mouth.

"Filth?" Morrigan's tone conveyed disgust, but Elissa didn't miss the curious gleam in her eye when she said it. It wasn't lost on Alistair either.

_Oops._

"Never you mind," Alistair snapped at the witch, and then turned to Elissa and said more lowly. "Mind your voice, that's a Grey Warden secret."

"Oh, who cares?" Elissa snapped back. She couldn't help herself; the hunger made her irate. "Answer the question," she hissed threateningly.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it's a side effect," he said tiredly.

Elissa gave a long drawn out sigh. "Does it last forever? Are  _you_  this hungry right now?"

"No." He raised his eyebrows. "Well, maybe. But I was always hungry, even before the Joining," he said attempting a weak smile.

Elissa ignored the relief that washed over her at that smile. She had been worried that he might never speak to her civilly again after her latest outburst, but right now, she was too horrified to focus on protecting her fragile relationship with her fellow warden.

"Great," she said, not answering his smile. It fled his face and her heart fell a notch before she pressed on, ignoring it. "Is there anything else I should know about . . ." she rolled her eyes trying to find the right word, ". . . the changes?"

Alistair's gaze flitted over to Morrigan, and Elissa's followed. The witch was fiddling with her belt, not looking at either of them. Elissa was quite sure she was just feigning disinterest.

"Not right now." He gave her a significant look. "I promise we'll talk soon about a few things, but nothing you have to worry about right now."

She nodded and looked away, thinking. They probably could stand to have a nice long talk, and soon, she realized, to help smooth things over with them.

She looked at each of her companions in turn and gave a final, official nod.

"We'll figure out where we're going after we get some food," she said aloud and then blanched with sudden realization. "Oh Maker, we don't have any money do we?"

Alistair shrugged at her. "Sorry, I'm broke. I spent the last of my coin . . ." he looked at her and Elissa realized what he meant. He'd spent all his money on the cloak he had bought her.

"Oh, right. Thanks for that, by the way," she said airily, adjusting the cloak around her shoulders and trying to hide her mortification. She should have thanked him  _ages_  ago of course but . . . there was nothing for it now.

He raised his eyebrows at her dry tone, but his lips twitched into another smile. Elissa smiled back and felt relief wash over her again.

"So . . . we need to find a way to get supplies without having any money whatsoever," she continued on sportingly, as if their lack of money wasn't a gigantic stumbling block.

"Well, the Chantry board may have available work for us. We could check there." Alistair offered.

"Great!" Elissa said, more enthusiastically than she really felt. Having to hire herself out for coin was not a situation she had ever anticipated being in. She could only imagine what kind of work that would entail.

"If I might make a suggestion," Morrigan broke in, hesitantly. "'tis a tavern in town that will have many travelers from far off places. I suggest we visit and discover what news there is about your enemy."

Elissa raised her eyebrows and nodded, pleased at both Morrigan's suggestion and the fact that she was contributing.

"Alright, let's get going," she said brightly. "We have much to do and little enough time in which to do it."

* * *

"Step aside,  _fools_ ," Elissa said, trying to channel the meanest, angriest, _bitchiest_  version of Eleanor Cousland that she could while glaring at the highwaymen on the bridge before her.

It wasn't as difficult as it might have been, considering her ravenous hunger had her nerves strung tighter than a bow. These  _idiots_  were standing between her and  _food_. A part of her wanted to follow Morrigan's advice and teach them a lesson.

_Don't be foolish, girl._

Elissa's attention snapped back to the present at Eleanor's voice in her mind. She needed to focus on  _avoiding_  this fight, not thinking of reasons to start it.

"Tsk tsk tsk," the dark haired man who appeared to be their leader said, shaking his head in mock offense. "Such manners! I expected better from a pretty thing like you." His gaze wandered up and down Elissa's frame before returning to her face with a smirk. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on."

Elissa assessed the bandits, trying to exude haughty confidence as she stood before them with her hands on her hips. There were five of them, and they were all at least as big as Alistair. Three of the men wore swords, while the two in back sported crossbows.

 _Outnumbered by one_.

She saw the fight in her mind, sped up. Alistair could take the big dumb warrior, she was fairly sure, and she'd seen Morrigan's abilities enough by now to know that the man standing in front of her would be an icicle in seconds. Prince was trained to take out archers—being quick and low to the ground made that an ideal role for him.

That left her with the leader, and that was no good. He was too large—both in height and in reach with that wicked looking longsword—for her to take on in a fair fight.

"You should have listened to your friend," she said, trying to inject menace into each word while still stalling for time. "We're not refugees."

It worked on the big, dumb one, at least.

"What did I tell you?" he said nervously. "No wagons and this one looks armed."

Their leader scoffed. "The toll applies to everyone, Hanrac. That's why it's a toll, and not a tax."

 _This isn't working._  Scary as Morrigan and Alistair might look, she was still a small girl barely above 5 feet tall dressed in mismatched armor. An easy target.

She could practically  _feel_  Alistair tensing up next to her, and the slightest gust of wind to her left made her suspect Morrigan had already started casting. A low growl from Prince caused her to reach out with her hand and rest her fingertips on his head to still the beast. He looked up at her and she gave the slightest hint of a frown. Thankfully, the mabari seemed to understand.

If a fight was inevitable, so be it, but she was going to be sure they had every advantage, first. She let her arms drop to her side and slumped her shoulders forward, hanging her head.

"Please." She let despair fill her voice, let her lip tremble as she brought her eyes up to the leader's. "We don't have any money," she confessed. She grasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer, and took a tentative step forward. It wasn't hard to make her face a mask of fear and desperation. " _Please_ , there must be something else we can do?"

She heard her companions respond to her change of tone before she knew if it was working on the bandits. She steadfastly ignored Morrigan's soft snort of derision, and the shuffle that meant Alistair was preparing for a fight or . . . something.

She couldn't risk looking; she had the leader's attention now; after he smirked at the rest of his gang in cocky amusement, he took a step toward her.

His gaze raked over her body, and almost unconsciously Elissa pulled her arms together just enough to emphasize her breasts . . . well, it _would_  have emphasized them, perhaps, had she not been wearing a vest of chain, she realized belatedly.

It didn't matter. The man took another step, and Elissa saw that an opening was imminent. She let her fear bubble to the surface, babbling  _please, sir_ and letting the tears fall down her face.

"Now, that's more like it," the bandit leered at her, and leaned forward, cutting the distance between them just enough . . .

In a flash Elissa's dagger was out and in a few quick movements, she had him turned around on his knees in front of her, fingers raking through his hair to jerk his head back, and her dagger digging into his throat.

The rest of his men sprang into action at the unexpected attack. The archers in the back loosed their crossbows while the men that had flanked the leader started toward her. The air turned deathly cold on her left side alerting her to the blast of snow Morrigan was moments from casting.

"Hold!" she yelled, and miraculously both sides listened. She glanced to her right. Alistair had his sword drawn, but he stopped when the men in front of him froze at her words. She met his eyes quickly and pleaded silently for him to give her a moment. Seeing that he understood she turned to Morrigan.

The witch let loose a freezing blast of cold to the man in front of her, freezing him into a solid block of ice.

The men stared in horror at their frozen comrade. The two men in the back shouted out before bringing their crossbows up and pointing them at Morrigan.

"Tell them to stop," Elissa hissed to the man she held, pressing the dagger against his throat hard enough to hurt.

" _Stop!_ " The two men in the back froze again, glancing at each other unsure.

"She's a Witch of the Wilds!" the big dumb one said, pointing at Morrigan.

"She's the least of your problems!" Elissa yelled, pleased when the big man turned to her and blinked, finally seeing the blood that had begun to trickle down the leader's neck. She spared a glance at Morrigan.

"I said,  _hold,_ " she said pointedly. Morrigan only smiled.

"Hanrec!" the leader choked out, finding it hard to speak with his head jerked back by Elissa's hand in his hair. "Don't do anything stupid." Elissa saw the man blink again, and slowly he pulled his hand away from his weapons.

"I doubt he can help it," she heard Morrigan say next to her.

"Alright," Alistair said to her right, stepping forward. "Drop your weapons, all of you." A thrill of relief went through her as Alistair moved to put himself between her and the other men.  _Smart._

"Good idea," she said lowly. Alistair turned his head slightly and nodded, inching closer to the rest of the bandits.

The men only waited a moment before reaching for their weapons.

"Slowly!" Alistair barked out, and when the men complied Elissa blew out a breath.  _This was going to work._

At that moment, the man that had been frozen by Morrigan's spell gasped as the ice fell off him in chunks. He inhaled sharply, reaching for his weapon—but Morrigan was there, twirling her fingers around a ball of green magical energy inches from the man's face.

"'twould not be a good idea," she said with a menacing smile.

The man gulped and nodded, reaching for his weapon now with only his thumb and forefinger, gingerly removing the sword and placing it on the ground before him as the other bandits had done.

"Now kick them away from you," Elissa said, yanking at the leader's head again lest he think she wasn't still serious. The men did as they were told.

"Please," the leader said, trying to watch his men but unable to see with the way his neck was craned back by Elissa's grip. "Please just let us go."

Elissa frowned down at the man to mask her discomfort. She hadn't thought much past disarming the men. But now what? She'd killed men before, sure, but never like this . . .

Still, these men had been ready to murder them for their possessions.

"We . . .we were just trying to get by!" the man's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he spoke; each time Elissa's dagger dug a little deeper into his throat.

"What  _exactly_  have you been doing?" Elissa cut off the bandit with a jerk of her fingers in his hair.

He worked his mouth silently for a few seconds before he was able to continue. "Well . . . wa-watching for folks fleeing from the south," he managed to croak out after a moment. "Chasind from the Wilds and farmholders, mostly. There aren't soldiers here anymore so we . . ." He swallowed painfully before continuing. ". . . Help ourselves. We try not to hurt anyone too much . . ."

Elissa doubted that was true. Her gaze traveled to a corpse by the wall. The bandit saw her gaze and started stammering. "He . . . he just wouldn't let up! He attacked us when we asked him for money. We didn't want to . . ."

"Shut up," Elissa snapped, suddenly not wanting to know the details. Maker, what was she supposed to do? Did being a warden mean suddenly that she was responsible for what happened to every criminal in Ferelden? She suspected not.

From what she could tell the Grey Warden thing to do would be conscript the bastards, but she had no intention of travelling with men like these.

"What can you tell us about what's going on in the village?" she asked at last. They could at least give up their information before she decided what to do with them.

"It's packed full," the bandit said, licking his lips and swallowing. "The bann took his men north with Teryn Loghain, so there's no one looking out for it except a few Templars at the chantry."

Elissa looked up at Alistair and saw the black look that descended on his face at the mention of Loghain. She understood the feeling. She'd begun to hate the Teryn almost as much as Arl Howe.

"Any survivors of the battle pass through here?" The thought just occurred to her. Morrigan said this was a trading point, and the closest village to the Wilds. Maybe other survivors of Ostagar had made it here. Maybe Fergus and his men . . .

"Couple, maybe. A group of wounded ash warriors came by earlier . . . got right out of their way."

"Maybe we'll let you live," she said, ignoring the way Alistair's head snapped up to look at her at that. " _If_  you can give me a reason. . ."

The bandit almost choked, trying to reply readily. "Yes, of course! You can take all the stuff we've collected! We've got 100 silvers and all the crates. . . "

She released the bandit's head with her left hand and reached down to pull his sword out of the sheath on his back, not moving her dagger away from his throat until it was free of the scabbard. She tossed it aside with a clang, pulled her dagger away, and kicked him in the back to the dirt.

He landed face first, sprawling on the ground with a thud. Once he limped to his feet he turned back to Elissa.

"You'll . . . you'll let us go then?"

Elissa still had her dagger out, pointed at the man. She looked at Alistair and raised her eyebrows. He shrugged in response, and it was clear to her that whatever she decided he would live with.

That made her frown again. They were going to have to have a long talk, and soon, about the way he kept leaving everything up to  _her_  to decide.

She lowered her dagger. "Start running," she said to the bandits. "And don't come back."

They wasted no time in obeying, sparing a few frightened glances from them as they ran down the bridge and away.

"We're just letting them go?" Morrigan said, voice dripping with disgust.

"Yes, Morrigan. It's either that, or execute them in cold blood." Morrigan's expression didn't change. Elissa rolled her eyes. "And well, I hate murdering people on an empty stomach."

It took them only a short while to rifle through the bandit's loot and determine there was little of any real value. They left most of it on the bridge.

They did have some money though now, and some extra weapons to sell, so when they finally descended the steps down the bridge, Elissa's mood was better than it had been in days. Food was imminent, she felt, and that was all that mattered

"Alright, I'll say it: I'm impressed."

Elissa turned with surprise at Alistair's remark.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You were very . . . convincing, back there, with the bandits," he gestured behind him with his head. "Though I'm not sure I like the idea of letting them loose to harass more refugees."

It was her turn to snort. "Convincing? I didn't have to reach too far to come off as scared and desperate. As for the refugees," she paused as the full sight of the tent city that had been erected around the small village of Lothering came into view as they stepped off the steps. ". . . They are going to have to look after themselves . . ."

Her voice trailed off. She watched as a young man and woman tried to comfort their crying child. The child's face was streaked with dirt, and they all looked frightened and desperate.

"Ah, look how they moan and wail and gnash their teeth," she heard Morrigan say in a sing-song voice as she joined them. "'Tis sad to watch how helplessly they scurry about."

Morrigan sneered at the peasants that walked by them, giving their group a wide berth—no doubt frightened of the heavily armed and odd looking strangers.

"Nice. Your compassion is an example to us all," Alistair said, sarcastically.

"Let's split up," Elissa said and whirled around before Morrigan could answer Alistair. She was sick to death of their bickering, and watching the steady stream of Blight refugees sparked a small hope. "I want to look for Fergus out here," she said in response to Alistair's questioning look.

Alistair and Morrigan actually shared a glance at that. Elissa's heart fell to see that finding Fergus was apparently such a hopeless task, even these two would agree about it.

"I'm not sure that's such a great idea," Alistair began.

"'tis a waste of time," Morrigan said, abruptly cutting him off. She gestured at the expanse of tents before them. "These sheep aren't soldiers. They're frightened farmers and families." She shook her head. "You won't find your brother among them. He is either dead or managed to flee north with the rest of his troops."

"Right," Alistair said dryly. "Very sensitive."

"I am simply saying we have much to do and little time to waste on pointless searches—"

"Enough!" Elissa snapped. Her companions' bickering and her own still rising hunger was enough to make her brief good mood completely evaporate. "We can spare a half hour for me to search the tents," she said firmly, staring at Morrigan and daring her to disagree. The witch merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, then we can all go," Alistair said with a worried frown. "No sense splitting up."

Elissa sighed. Now that she'd had the idea, the thought of having some relief from the tension between the three of them was attractive enough that she didn't want to let it go without a fight.

Plus, what if she did find Fergus? She would have to explain . . . her stomach twisted at the thought. Yes, on the off chance that she  _did_  find him (and she knew the chance was low) she would prefer to be able to tell him all she had to in private.

"Look, Morrigan's right about one thing: we do have a lot to do." The witch looked pleased that Elissa had at least conceded her that point. Elissa took a step toward Alistair and reached out to briefly touch his forearm with her fingertips as she spoke. He looked down at her, startled. She felt a twang of guilt at the manipulation; she sensed he wasn't used to being touched, much less by a girl her age. But, if it helped convince him, what was the harm? "Why don't you go check out the Chantry board, like you said?" she said softly, giving him a small smile. "And you can ask around, find out what help they might have to offer."

"Right," he drew out the word, clearly not committed. Elissa ignored his reservations and turned to the witch.

She was already walking away.

"Morrigan?"

Morrigan stopped and turned back to them. "We need food, supplies and shelter," she said, ticking off the items on her fingers. "I do not need  _to be told_  how to be useful," she said, arching her eyebrow significantly at Alistair. "I shall meet you in the tavern when you've concluded your business."

"It's kind of impressive don't you think?" she said to him, cocking her head to the side as she watched Morrigan walk away from them.

"What's that?"

"The way she can turn almost any situation into a way to insult you," she said, looking up at him a crooked smile.

He snorted, and watched Morrigan's figure disappear through the crowds of the little village. After a second, he turned back to her with a frown and said, "You two should teach a class."

Elissa blinked, and then felt her cheeks start to burn with shame.  _I am not as bad as_ her _,_ she thought angrily, but then remembered her outburst in the Wilds, and all the ways she'd shown herself to be ungrateful of suspicious of him since they'd met a mere two days ago.

"Alistair, about what I said back in the Wilds—"

"Don't worry about it," he said too quickly, and she saw the flush starting to creep its way up his cheeks. She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him she didn't mean to insult him, but he seemed loathe to talk about it now and she felt awkward and unsure how to even begin.

"Alright," she said quietly, after a few moments.

He adjusted his pack to be more comfortable and then gave her another serious look. "Are you  _sure_  you'll be ok on your own?"

She looked up and nodded, putting the tension between them aside for the moment.

"I'll be  _fine_ ," she said confidently, and then reached down to pat Prince's big head. "Besides, I'm not alone. I'll have Prince with me," she smiled at him, too brightly. He nodded and started to turn away.

"Be careful," he said over his shoulder as he made his way into the village.

Elissa watched him go and let out a breath. Now that he was walking away from her, she was suddenly filled with trepidation. How quickly she'd gotten used to his large frame always being nearby, ready to protect her from any danger—

_Like Rory had . . ._

She shook her head forcefully to rid herself of the comparison. She had to stop doing that.

Besides, it was silly to feel nervous, she thought to herself, squaring her shoulders and making for the line of tents outside the village. It's not like she needed a  _chaperone_  to walk around a bunch of scared families and refugees.

In spite of being scared, half-starved, and homeless herself, she knew she wasn't helpless. She'd managed to disarm and bully the highwaymen, after all. She would just have to keep reminding herself of that fact.

With a deep breath, she set off to join the throng of people moving through the tents outside the village, keeping an eye open for the familiar brown curls of her beloved brother's head.


	9. Chapter 9

"What do you think you’re _doing_?"

Alistair stood up with a jerk, nearly taking half the prickly rose bush with him. He turned around, guiltily holding his illicit prize in his hand, only to see a pretty, red-haired Chantry sister glaring at him with ice-blue eyes.

"I’m sorry!" he stammered, nervously trying to pluck the dead leaves off the too-long stalk of the rose he was carrying. "I . . . didn’t think anyone would mind. That bush looked dead and I saw this and I just thought . . ."

He shrugged, unable to put into words the impulse that had struck him when he saw the pretty red bloom of a flower unexpectedly peeking out of what looked to be an otherwise dead rose bush. He’d exited the Chantry in a depressed shuffle, head hanging low at all the dire news he’d received inside. The unexpected rose had encouraged him, and he couldn’t help himself. He had to have it.

The Chantry sister regarded him for a few seconds, and Alistair had the uncomfortable sensation that she was sizing him up as her cool blue eyes took in his form from head to toe. She must have deemed him harmless, however, because after a few moments, she seemed to relax. She squinted up at him and a hint of a smile formed on her lips.

". . . You thought that you would pick a beautiful flower and give it to a pretty girl, perhaps?" she said, her Orlesian lilt giving her words a poetic flair.

"Maker, no!" he said too loudly, feeling his cheeks turn red. The idea of giving the rose to either of his companions made his eyes grow wide. "Sheesh, do I have _lecher_ printed on my forehead or something?"

The woman narrowed her eyes at him and her lips twitched. "In what world do you live in where lechers give pretty girls flowers?" she asked, amusement seeping into her tone. Alistair blinked and then smiled, pleased to have a pretty woman joking with him for once.

"Well, I don’t really know what lechers are into," he said, and then raised his eyebrows significantly. "Not _being_ one myself and all," he finished triumphantly. Her tinkling laugh warmed him thoroughly. "Anyway," he continued, plucking the last of the dead leaves off the rose he held. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have picked it. Do you . . ." he held the flower out awkwardly. ". . . want it?"

The sister’s eyebrows climbed her forehead, and she took a step forward. She placed her hands over the one he had outstretched. "Why don’t you keep it?" she said lowly, looking up at him from under long lashes that fluttered prettily. She gently pushed his hand back to his chest. "And next time, give it to a girl whose name you _actually know._ " She winked at him then, and Alistair felt his face go hot.

"Um, thanks," he said, as she removed her hands and took a step back. "I’ll just . . . be going now," he finished lamely, suddenly feeling out of his depth. He turned to flee, but as he did he heard her gasp.

He jerked his head around to see what had caused it and saw that she was staring intently at the shield on his back. Cold dread started to thread its way through his stomach. In the Chantry he had learned that Loghain had pinned both the loss at Ostagar and the King’s death on the Grey Wardens.

"That symbol!" she said, eyes growing wide. "You’re a . . . you’re a Grey Warden!"

"Grey what now?" he said, trying to act befuddled. He saw her expression harden.

"That shield," she said flatly. "That’s a Grey Warden symbol—"

"What? This old thing?" Alistair gestured at the shield on his back. "I . . . I looted it off a dead guy. I don’t know what you are talking about."

This time her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You are a terrible liar, Ser . . .?"

With a sigh and an eye roll, Alistair provided his name. "Alistair," he said dejectedly. "But look, whatever you’ve heard about the Grey Wardens turning on the King—"

"All _lies_ ," the sister said firmly. Alistair’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "The Grey Wardens are an ancient and noble organization dedicated to fighting Darkspawn. They would _never_ do such a thing."

The relief that washed over Alistair at her words was overwhelming.

"Thank you!" Alistair said. "You have _no_ idea how nice that is to hear."  How refreshing it was to be trusted, and even respected, for being a Grey Warden! Maker, he must’ve spent too much time with Elissa, to expect only suspicion and hostility from everyone now. Thinking of Elissa made him feel suddenly nervous, however. He really needed to find her and let her know what he had found out . . .

"Tell me. . ." The Chantry sister took a step toward him again, looking around before continuing in a low voice. "Do you have a companion? A woman? Short, with blonde hair?"

"How do you know that?" he asked sharply, surprised at his own sudden wariness. Maybe Elissa was wearing off on him, but given her fears about assassins from Howe, he couldn't help wondering what this Chantry sister could know about Elissa.

The sister didn't seem to be bothered by his tone. She kept looking around as she spoke. "There were some men that came by the Chantry a few hours ago. They were looking for two wardens: a man and a woman. They gave descriptions of both of you."

Alistair's mouth went dry. Elissa was wandering the tent city outside, last he knew, but she might've come into the village by now. What if they found her first? "What can you tell me about these men?"

Her eyes met his. "They were Loghain's soldiers."

Alistair set his mouth in a grim line. "Thank you for the information, Sister . . ."

"Leliana."

"Leliana," he repeated, the small part of his brain that wasn't reacting in panic noted that it sounded much prettier coming from her. "I need to find my friend."

"Of course," she said as he turned on his heel abruptly. It was rude of him, he knew, but his fear made him curt. He had to find Elissa and make sure she was alright. Already he was mentally kicking himself for agreeing to split up. He hadn't realized how dangerous it would be, but still. He shouldn't have agreed to it . . .

"I'm coming with you."

He stopped and turned in surprise. Leliana was next to him. "Really, that's not necessary—" he began.

"Nonsense," she said, waving a hand in his face. "You need to look for her, and I can keep an eye out for Loghain's men while you search."

"That's really not a good idea—"

"I have my own business with her."

That brought him up short. He glared at her suspiciously. "What business?"

She noticed his change of tone and shook her head. "I must speak to her. Trust me," she placed a hand on his forearm and Alistair was suddenly reminded of Elissa's similar trick outside the village. "I mean her and you no harm."

Alistair groaned and looked around. He really didn't have time to argue. He doubted Elissa would care for Leliana's intrusion very much and he had absolutely no clue what business a Chantry sister could have with the youngest Cousland, but . . . well, they could deal with that later. For now, he just needed to _find_ her.

"Come on then," he said at last, and started walking briskly toward the outskirts of the village. "Let's hope we find her before they do."

* * *

Leliana struggled to keep up with the Warden in front of her. He was practically running through the tent city on the outskirts of the village.

"Slow down!" She panted after him, grabbing his arm. He stopped, but kept looking around, eyes darting wildly. "You'll miss her going so fast."

"She's not here," Alistair said, not returning her gaze. "Let's head back to the village."

Leliana blinked at him in disbelief. "You barely looked! You flew through here so fast—"

"She's not _here_ ," Alistair insisted again, finally turning to return her gaze. "Just . . . trust me, I know. Come on."

Leliana blinked after him as he turned and raced away without waiting to see if she'd follow. _How could he possibly know that?_ She struggled to catch up with him while still trying to keep an eye out for Loghain's men.

She caught him just as he was stepping foot off a small bridge. The sun peeked out from the clouds and a flash of sunlight illuminated the shields of some men walking in front of them. Leliana gasped and reached out for Alistair's arm again.

"Stop!" she hissed. He looked down at her expectantly. "Here!" She took his hand and dragged him behind the wall of a small hut on the other side of the bridge, pushing him up against the wall.

"Uh . . ." Alistair said, and she hastily shushed him, putting her hand against his mouth and then leaning to the left to try and peek around the building at the men she'd spotted.

He froze then, and she got a good look. "It's Loghain's men," she whispered. Alistair tried to speak and she realized she still had his hand on his mouth. She removed it and put a finger to her lips before she leaned aside again and got a better look. "They seem to be following someone." She felt Alistair tense up, and then suddenly realized she was pressed up against him rather . . . inappropriately. She took a small step back.

"Who are they following?" he whispered, and made to lean around the edge of the building to look. Leliana stopped him by putting her hands on his arms and pushing him back against the wall. He looked down at her, and she saw how flushed his face was. Part of her marveled that a soldier such as him could find anything to blush about in the way she was manhandling him, but she also realized she wasn't exactly playing the part of the Chantry sister particularly well at the moment.

She took a step back again and reassured him. "It's not your friend. It's some strange looking Chasind woman, I think."

He groaned at that, and this time she wasn't fast enough to keep him from peeking around the corner of the building. One glance was apparently enough to confirm his fears.

"Morrigan," he said. "Crap." He leaned back against the building.

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "You know this woman?"

"Yes," he said, sighing deeply through the words and pinching his nose. "You're sure they are following her?"

Leliana risked another glance. "Yes, I think so. She . . . yes, she just went into the tavern, and now those men are following." She looked at the Grey Warden again. "How do you know this woman? She looks . . . strange."

"It's a long . . . really awful story," he said simply, and then put his hands on his hips and looked like he was struggling to come to a decision, looking off in the distance. "They can't know we're with her," he said, more to himself than to her, Leliana thought. "But if they're following her, that can't lead to anything good." He sighed deeply before looking resolved and turning to head toward the tavern.

Leliana struggled to catch up again. "Wait!"

"You'll want to stay out here," he said, not looking at her and checking that the sword in his sheath was loose enough to draw.  "This is probably going to get ugly."

Leliana just raised an eyebrow at him and let him walk away, before checking that the daggers she had concealed in her robes were easily accessible. _Bring it on, Loghain_ , she thought to herself, simultaneously horrified and thrilled at the jolt of electricity that the thought of violence sent through her.

She shook her head and hurried after Alistair. She could feel guilty later. Now she needed to help the Wardens.

Now it was time to play her part in the Maker's plan.

* * *

Morrigan sneered disbelievingly at the fat man behind the counter, crossing her arms in front of her. "You mean to tell me you're completely out of food?"

"Aye, that's right I do," the man answered, unruffled by her tone. "A whole mess of refugees come in and leave near every night." He waved a frustrated hand around the room of the dark tavern. "All have hungry bellies, sad tales, and mementos for barter. I sold that bleeding merchant outside about half my larder two weeks back, and now he's charging outrageous sums for all my food."

Morrigan shrugged and raised her eyebrows. "'Tis only survival of the fittest. I'm surprised you don't do the same."

The man snorted at her in disdain. "I may be a cantankerous old coot, but I'm not going to beggar everyone comes by for a loaf of bread."

Morrigan frowned, not interested in debating with the man. So far she'd found the people of Lothering to be a contemptible lot, all too willing to beg and plead for handouts, rather than making any of their own luck or finding ways to be useful.

Still, there were other supplies that they needed, and there was bound to be work for those that looked for it.

"What have you got for trade?" she asked, just as the door to the tavern opened. The bright sunlight that poured into the dim room made the shopkeeper blink and squint, but when his eyes adjusted his face pulled into a deep frown.

"Loghain's men," he muttered to her quietly, so that no one else would hear. "They've been trouble all day. Drinking and worse. Best to steer clear of them."

_Concerned for my safety?_ Morrigan wondered, and then chuckled to herself. _More likely concerned for his barroom._ She turned her head slightly and looked out of the corner of her eye. She could see a group of men making their way across the floor in her direction. She turned back to the shopkeeper and affected a disinterested stance.

"Do you have anything for trade or not?" She said, loud enough for anyone near to hear. She heard footsteps; one of the men was approaching directly behind her.

She saw the shopkeeper tense up, right before a voice behind her spoke.

"Well, well, well what do we have here?" The footsteps stopped. She could almost feel hot breath on her neck. She kept her eyes on the shopkeeper in front of her and heard the men sniggering behind her.

"I don't know, but she looks like she don't belong here."

The man behind her laughed. "You got that right, dressed like that." She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Miss, I'm talking to you—"

Morrigan grabbed the top of the staff that was strapped to her back and yanked, causing the other end to rise and hit the man behind her squarely between the legs. He gave a strangled cry and she heard him drop to the ground as she whirled, pulling the staff from behind her and looking around.

The rest of the tavern's occupants started to scatter, shouts of fear and anger raising the level of noise to a dull roar. The man on the floor started to rise when she kicked him in the face, sprawling him backwards and into a chair.

She turned just in time to jab the end of her staff into the throat of a man coming up on her left. He gagged and reached for his throat, dropping to his knees. She grinned wolfishly at him before feeling strong arms grab her and pin her arms behind her.

"That's enough outta you!" the soldier barked in her ear, and Morrigan flinched at the hot spittle that flew out of his mouth when he yelled. The men all reeked of ale.

_Fools. I shall teach them a lesson for this—_

Just then the tavern doors flew open, and the room was washed in bright sunlight from outside. It slammed shut and Morrigan saw that Alistair and a Chantry sister had entered.

"Unhand that woman at once!" the fool Templar yelled, brandishing his sword and stepping forward, clearly ready to play hero.

The man behind her yanked her arms painfully as the two men she'd disabled struggled to get to their feet. She thought about mind blasting the lot of them right then and there, but the shopkeeper was standing close enough to get caught up in it and even though the other patrons of the bar were looking at the lot of them in terrified glances as they tried to scuttle away, she had not a yet revealed herself to be a mage.

She froze, and watched as Alistair took a few steps toward them.

"I said unhand her," he said. The man she'd disabled with a hit to the crotch finally stood and, fully recovered now, cleared his throat.

Two men wielding crossbows emerged from a back room just then, training their weapons on Alistair. Morrigan frowned.  She'd thought there were only three. She watched as Alistair became aware of being surrounded, and saw his gaze flick between her and the woman he'd entered with.

She frowned again, wondering for what purpose Alistair had brought a Chantry sister with him. _Perhaps he told the Templars about me?_ But if he were going to betray her, why defend her now against these men?

She steeled herself, ready to mind blast her way out of her assailant's grip when the best opportunity presented itself.

"Well, look what we have here, men," the first soldier said, and a note of triumph entered his voice as he saw that he and his men had the upper hand. "I think we've just been blessed."

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about a man by this very description?" the man holding Morrigan asked. She winced again at having to smell his foul breath. "And everyone said they hadn't seen him?"

"It seems we were lied to," the first soldier said.

Just then the Chantry sister stepped forward.

"Gentlemen," she said in a gentle foreign accent. "Surely there is no need for trouble. This man is no doubt simply one more poor soul seeking refuge."

The soldier regarded the sister for a moment. "Naw, he's more than that. Now stay out of our way, sister. You protect this traitor, you'll get the same as him."

"I'm _no_ traitor," Alistair said menacingly. "And you leave her out of this."

"Wait a second," the man holding Morrigan yelled out. "Where's the other one? The blonde bitch he's supposed to be with?"

At that, Morrigan saw Alistair smirk. "I suspect you'll find out in a moment," he said, lunging at the soldier before him.

While Morrigan had no idea why the Templar was smirking, she did know that her moment had arrived. She quickly cast her mind blast, knocking the man holding her backwards, and the poor shopkeeper besides. She leaped on a nearby table and sent a blast of winter cold at the man who had been holding her, freezing him where he stood.

Morrigan saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned her head to look she was shocked to see the Chantry sister deliver a swinging kick to one of the men with crossbows, knocking him to the floor before twirling, a dagger flashing now in each hand, and lunging for the other archer.

There was no time to digest _that_ interesting development, however, as at that moment, the door swung open again, and the bright light made everyone wince. After a moment, a chorus of gasps rang out, as the tavern's occupants' eyes adjusted.

Standing in the doorway to the tavern was the tallest man Morrigan had ever seen. A dark skinned, white haired monster entered the tavern, followed quickly by Elissa and her mabari, who dove into the fray without hesitation.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows and threw a bolt of lightning at a soldier that got too close. She grinned as the smell of burnt flesh and hair reached her.

She had to admit it: the Wardens kept things interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

_Highever. Castle Cousland. The night of Arl Howe's attack._

“Good evening, Arl Howe.”

That wasn't quite right _._ Elissa frowned at the ivy growing on the castle wall. She needed to say the man’s name without sounding like she was on the verge of sighing with resignation.

“Good evening, Arl Howe.”

That was it. Say it quickly, and without flourish. Just get through the introductions and then sit and drink some wine. It wouldn’t be so bad.

Elissa fingered the end of her braid. She stood just outside the entrance to the dining hall, not quite able to bring herself to go in and greet her guests. That would mean that her tenure as acting Teyrna would begin.

She took a deep breath and absentmindedly started chewing on the end of her braid—a terrible habit of which her mother was constantly (and futilely) trying to break her.

She wasn’t nervous to be in charge—quite the opposite. The Castle and the surrounding village of Highever would hardly be in any danger. Her duties would be largely ceremonial or custodial in nature.

Honestly, the thought of it bored her a little.

Her father and Fergus had the "exciting" duty.  Father was leaving tomorrow to go battle in the Korcari Wilds, while Fergus and his men had already left. _Darkspawn_. She hadn’t really believed they were real until her father told her they were leaving. It seemed like something out of nightmares.

Truth be told, she had little desire to join them. No, her problem with her current predicament had nothing to do with being "kept" out of the fighting at Ostagar. Her problem, such that it was, was simply what this little assignment _signified_.

It's not like her mother had been subtle about it, using her favorite words _responsibility_ and _potential_ over and over again, as she had explained to a mortified Elissa what would be expected of her. It was all a part of her mother's plan to mold her into the respectable and duty-bound Cousland woman she was meant to grow into.

And Elissa didn't have a problem with that, not _really._ She wanted to get married and run a household of her own someday, of course. She just wasn't ready for it to start so _soon_ , was all. She wasn't even eighteen yet! She was too young to be burdened with the intricacies of Ferelden politics and the duties that come with positions of power. She would be stealing kisses in broom closets, pilfering her parents' wine stores, and generally getting into the kind of good-natured mischief every other noble brat in Ferelden seemed to get in to for years to come, if Elissa could have her way.

_Every other noble brat in Ferelden isn't the daughter of a Teryn,_ she heard her mother say, followed closely by: _the only other one shares the throne of Ferelden._  Her mother loved to point that little tidbit of information out, to what purpose Elissa didn't know. It's not like she could help that she was born too young to be married off to Cailan.

A sudden loud clanging erupted in the dining hall—a platter placed down heavily on a table, perhaps, and Elissa’s attention was brought back to her current situation.

_Right_. She still had to go in and greet her guests. She sighed. As frightening as the darkspawn seemed, Elissa realized she’d far rather face them in battle than take the ten steps required to enter the dining hall.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, but she knew her mother would have her sit next to the Arl, and in spite of the fact that he was an old personal friend to the Couslands, Elissa couldn’t stand the man.

_Hiding your dislike for a person is a skill that will serve you well, Elissa. Remember to hold your friends close and your enemies closer._ Her mother had taught her many lessons—potions and poisons were the fun ones. Ferelden politics and etiquette were not. But still, she listened, and tried (often failing) to put what her mother had told her into practice.

She sighed. She was just stalling now, that much was clear. Of course she could do this. It wasn’t that hard.

“Good evening, Arl Howe. It’s so good to see you again,” Elissa said aloud, giving a small tilt of the head. She smiled, pleased at herself. That sounded much more sincere than her other attempts. She could sound sincere when she wanted to. 

Of course, she’d be thinking something else entirely the whole time.

“Your breath _totally_ doesn’t reek of onions and sauerkraut,” she murmured. “And your face totally doesn’t remind me of a diseased horse at all, either.”

She heard a quiet chuckle behind her.  “Well, we can’t _all_ be Couslands.”

Elissa winced to herself as her heart sank. Then there was Rory.

“You’re not going to tell my mother on me, are you?” she asked lightly, without turning around

“Tell her what? That you were complaining about my looks and foul breath again?” The young knight took a step to join her by the wall.

Elissa turned to look at him and smiled, trying to mask the sadness she started to feel whenever they spoke lately. “Very funny. You know I wasn’t talking about your handsome self.”

Her compliment was rewarded with a faint blush on the knight’s face. _It is too easy,_ Elissa thought ruefully. But she always flirted with Rory. He didn’t take her flirting seriously, of course, so why did she feel so guilty?

“You really don’t like him do you?” Rory spoke lowly and looked around. Elissa knew he hated to speak ill of his so-called betters, no matter how much they might deserve it. Rather than make him more uncomfortable, she changed the subject.

“I don’t like any of this. Darkspawn in the south. Father and Fergus leaving. _Me_ in charge while they are gone. . .” She looked sideways at Rory.  “And then there’s the little matter of you running off to join the Grey Wardens.”

Rory laughed again. “You make it sound like I’m running away to join a group of traveling tumblers.”

“I wish. That would be safer, at least.”

“I’m not so sure,” Rory leaned in conspiratorially. “My tumbling’s really not that great.”

It was a rare joke from the normally ever earnest and serious Ser Gilmore, but Elissa didn’t laugh.

“I’d rather have you take your chances.”

Rory sighed and Elissa again felt guilty. They’d had this discussion more than once already.

“Being asked to join the Wardens is an incredible honor. And with a possible Blight on our doorstep, their duty is more important now than ever.”

_And more dangerous than ever._

 “Are you sure you want this? Because it’s not too late to back out. I can always tell Duncan that you’ve got some kind of horrible infectious skin rash or that you still wet the bed if you’re having second thoughts.”

“Careful there, ‘Liss. The Wardens need recruits. Duncan may look at you yet again.”

Elissa raised her eyebrows and laughed. "Me? Not going happen. Father already made it very clear that we’re not interested.”

“Well sure, but, they could always invoke the Right of Conscription.”

Elissa was unworried. “I doubt that Duncan would risk offending father. Anyway, stop changing the subject. Are you very sure about all this?”

Rory looked at her square. “Yes. I am sure. Besides, what else am I going to do?”

Elissa looked away, avoiding his gaze. This is where their discussion inevitably led. What else indeed? Rory’s family held little land, and he couldn’t really expect to marry well or hold a keep someday.

He cleared his throat. “So, unless you have a better idea . . .” his voice trailed off. Elissa looked at him again. He was staring at her a little more intently than usual, and she felt some heat rise in her cheeks at his scrutiny. That was as bold as Rory would get, she knew.

It would only take a small encouraging word. Some vague reference to a possible future for the two of them, and Rory would reconsider. She knew she could make him stay if she really wanted to.

But that wouldn't be fair to either of them.

She smiled, and tried to keep the sadness she felt out of her face.

“Well, the Wardens will be ever so lucky to have you. Those monsters won't stand a chance with you on our side.”

Rory snorted at her exaggerated praise, and Elissa felt relief that the small awkward moment had passed.

“Your confidence is inspiring.” He frowned then, and looked down the hall a moment before continuing. “Of course we still have to actually get to Ostagar. Why the Arl’s men couldn’t be on time . . .” he shook his head as if to stop himself from continuing.

Elissa frowned. Rory didn't usually like to vent pointless worries. He was honestly upset. “What’s wrong with you? You seem rattled.”

“Well it’s––" he started, and then corrected himself. “No. I shouldn’t be troubling you with this. You have more important things to worry about.”

Elissa raised her eyebrows and tried to act authoritative, for once. “ _Rory_ ," she said significantly, placing her finger tips on his shoulder and leaning in. "I’m going to be acting Teyrna as soon as I step into that dining hall. Why don’t you tell me and let _me_ figure out how important it is?” She flashed him what she hoped was her most charming smile.

It must have worked, because the young knight looked around and spoke in a quiet voice. “Arl Howe’s men are not the most . . ." he searched his mind for the most diplomatic way to say it, ". . . disciplined.”

Elissa furrowed her brow, serious now. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it's nothing specific, mind you. I just. . . I have a bad feeling." He looked down at her, and she saw the concern in his eyes. "They just seem a bit . . . ill-mannered.”

Elissa relaxed a bit at that, thinking she knew what this was about. It was true: Howe's men didn't appear to be as disciplined as her father's men, and that had been apparent in the way they acted in her presence. They had stared openly at her whenever she passed by them, and some of their stares had been downright lecherous. Rory must have noticed.

But that's all it was: a bunch of soldiers being uncouth about a pretty girl. It was nothing she hadn't dealt with before, and hardly a matter of worry.

"Oh, that," she said, with a reassuring smile. "Well, look at who they—" she started, and then stopped, realizing that criticizing Arl Howe would only make Rory more uncomfortable. She looked up at him under her lashes and her grin turned sly. "Not everyone can be as dashing as my father’s men.”

That earned her another blush.

"Maybe you’re right." He shook his head again and the worried frown fled his face, replaced instead with a look Elissa realized was nervous anticipation. "I’m just anxious to depart."

_So eager to leave me?_

"With Duncan," she said softly. "Off to go become a hero." She smiled again, hoping it didn't look as sad as it felt to her. 

"Right," he snorted at the thought, but she could see the light in his eyes at the word _hero._

"Well," she said, finding her voice suddenly feeling thick in her throat. "I'd best get in there before Mother decides to drag me in by the ear."

"Enjoy your dinner, milady," he said, and smiled down at her. For a brief moment, he looked as if he were hesitating—as if he had something else to say to her. Her breath caught in her throat, but then the look passed and he gave her a nod before turning and walking down the hall.

She watched him go. This would be his last night in the castle, she realized. His last night as her protector . . .

She frowned and shook her head, trying not to think about what might have been. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she turned away from the hall and took the last few steps into the dining room, ready to begin her first night as the acting Teyrna of Highever.

* * *

_Lothering. About ten minutes ago._

Elissa walked around the village, munching on an apple. She was carrying a sack of them, along with what was assuredly the hardest hunk of bread she'd ever encountered. Still, it was large, and in her current state, it may as well have been one of Nan's pies. She had to keep herself from tearing into it in front of everyone, forcing herself to be content with the apples for now. She was on her third one.

The dreadful hunger she'd felt since arriving at Lothering had only grown after her fruitless search of the refugee camp. She had no luck in finding him, of course. Still, it had been an eye-opening experience, seeing the ways in which these poor people were forced to live. They were packed into shabby looking make-shift tents, or else just lying on pallets on the ground, moaning their pains to the sky. The whole place stank both of human and animal waste, and Elissa found herself covering her nose with the back of her hand to block out the smell.

People had been all too willing to speak to her, she found, though having the enormous mabari by her side kept anyone from getting too close. She didn't know if it was all the weaponry she carried or something else, but when their eyes found hers, they seemed to think she was someone who could help them.

She did her best to avoid making eye contact, but some of them were not dissuaded. She tried to help when they sought her out, but she felt like she was fumbling through every interaction, trying to remember lessons half paid attention to from both her parents and Aldous.

She straightened out the merchant situation straight away—her father would have hanged a merchant pulling such a stunt had Highever been in Lothering straits. She couldn't let the man continue to gouge these poor souls of what little coin they had left. That had backfired when he told her she would still have to pay his insane prices. No good deed goes unpunished, it seemed. She'd been forced to come back to him contritely after circling the village and looking for food. He was the only one who had any, so she paid whatever he asked.

The apples were terrible: mealy and she had to be careful to watch for worms. She ate them nevertheless, biting the cores down to the seeds before tossing them away and reaching for another.  She hardly cared where she walked anymore, now that she had food. She found herself wandering aimlessly.

"Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun."

Elissa frowned and looked up, trying to locate the voice. It was a language and an accent she didn't recognize, spoken in a deep voice by someone nearby.

"Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun."

She followed the sound and found herself in front of a large cage. The largest man Elissa had ever seen was standing in it.

The man had to be seven feet tall, and his wide shoulders were set with huge muscles—she could see them under the rags he wore. He had a face like a monster, she thought, as she watched him stand there motionless, staring unmoving at the landscape before him.

"I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace."

It took Elissa several seconds to realize he was addressing her. His gaze hadn't changed, and Elissa could detect no recognizable emotion in his deep voice.

She chewed and swallowed her mouthful of apple, wondering if it was worth it to try and engage the unfriendly creature. She couldn't help herself, in the end. Her curiosity overwhelmed her.

" _What_ are you?" she found herself saying in breathless wonder.

Finally, the man looked at her, and Elissa shuddered. He had red eyes. _Red._

"I am Sten of the Beresaad—the vanguard—of the qunari peoples.

_A qunari!_ Elissa marveled. She had read about his people, of course, but she never thought to meet one.

"You're a prisoner? Who put you there?"

"I'm in a cage, am I not? I've been placed here by the Chantry."

"Why?"

"I have been convicted of murder. Have the villagers not spoken of this?"

Elissa blinked. No one had said anything to her.

"No," she said, frowning up at the giant. "They seem largely concerned with their own survival." She gave a shrug. "Fancy that."

The giant's face remained unmoved. She waited, but he didn't continue.

"So," she said, drawing out the word. "Are you guilty?"

"Are you asking if I feel guilty? Or if I am responsible for the deed?"

She glared up at him. Funny, even without the tone, she could recognize wordplay designed to obfuscate rather than answer.

"How about both?" she said, putting some heat in the words. Large as he was, he was still in a cage, after all.

He stared at her with that expressionless face for another long moment before saying simply, "However I feel, whatever I've done. My life is forfeit now."

"So, in other words, yes to both," she bit back at him. This man was just another murderer. "Great, you feel guilty," she snorted over her shoulder and started walking away, the anger that always lurked inside her bubbling to the surface once again.

"Either you have an enviable memory, or a pitiable life, to know nothing of regret."

She froze and turned her head at that. His tone had been . . . unexpected. Maybe it was just the monotone way that he spoke in general but . . . something told Elissa that wasn't so.

She turned around to face the quiet giant, scowling up at him.

"Actually," she said slowly, adjusting the bags in her hands and taking a step forward to look up at the man in the cage. "I have had an enviable life and pitiable memories, but I do know a thing or two about regret."

There might have been a twinkle in his eyes at her own wordplay, or she might've imagined it.

"I see."

He regarded her, and she didn't bother trying to hide her conflicted emotions from her face. She was curious about this _thing_ , who was at both so monstrous and yet so . . . noble?

"Who did you murder?" she asked quietly.

"The people of a farm hold. Eight humans, in addition to the children."

It should have horrified her. It _did_ on some level. But it was so many. _Eight._  Added to the hundred or so at her Castle. Daveth. Jory. Added to thousands at Ostagar. _So much death_. After a while she just became numb to it. It was incomprehensible.

How could he speak so calmly about such a crime? Calmly . . . but not coldly, she realized as she continued to stare at him. Elissa didn't really trust herself to read people anymore, but if she did, she would have sworn that this man was sincere in his regret.

Though why that should matter . . . ?

"How could you do that?" she said quietly, still scowling at the frightening creature. "How could you murder children? That's . . . horrible." A mental image of Oren's tiny body, broken and crumpled on the bedroom floor, arose unbidden at her words.

It must have shown on her face, because she could see the qunari watching her closely now as he chose his next words.

"I agree," he said at last, as if that were enough of an answer.

She frowned at him, trying to imagine what could possibly lead this taciturn and reserved individual to murder eight people. She also couldn't understand her own reaction. Why wasn't she frightened of him? It wasn't the cage, not really.

_First, you must survive._ This time Elissa wasn't sure if it was her mother's or Morrigan's voice that scolded her in her mind. Maker, her subconscious was getting weird.

Still, whoever it was, it was a voice worth listening to and she blinked at the reminder.

_Right._

She was a Grey Warden now—responsible for stopping the Blight from overcoming the nation of Ferelden. In order to do that, she needed to . . . recognize strength when she saw it, and find a way to use it. _That is exactly what Duncan would do._

That was an even odder thought and yet . . . she knew what she needed to do.

She stepped right up to the cage, inspecting it as she did. The metal was warped in places and very rusty all over. It had to be weak and brittle. She was close enough to it that the man could reach out and snap her neck if he so wanted, she realized. But her gut told her that he wouldn't.

"Capturing you must not have been easy," she said, eyes narrowed.

"There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders."

There it was. She raised her eyebrows. "I didn't think the qunari were the surrendering type."

He didn't answer that, just stared back at her with that inscrutable face of his.

"How long have you been in this cage?"

"Twenty days, now. I shouldn't last much longer. Another week at most."

Elissa's mouth hung open. "That is an incredibly long time to survive without food and water."

"Compared to your kind, maybe."

Elissa almost laughed. She was starting to feel giddy. _Imagine it . . . a qunari bodyguard!_ The thought stirred a manic bubble of laughter in her throat. She bit her lips and got herself under control.

"Tell me, qunari," she said looking him up and down. "Are you interested in atoning for your crimes?"

"Death will be my atonement."

"Most assuredly," she said, and tried to give the wolfish sort of smile she'd seen Morrigan pull off on occasion. "I'm simply proposing that rather than die here, pointlessly, you die alongside me. With a purpose: fighting the Blight."

"The Blight? Are you a Grey warden, then?"

"I am," she said, a little unnerved that she actually felt a bit . . . _proud_ to say it _._ At least Alistair wasn't around to see it.

"Surprising," the giant said, in a tone that suggested no surprise at all. "My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill . . . though I suppose not every legend is true."

That brought a snort out of Elissa. "Oh you have no _idea_ ," she laughed at him, and was pleased when she saw his brows knit together in slight confusion. Any reaction at all from this man she'd count as a win for now.

"Alright, I've come to a decision." She brought herself up and threw away the apple she'd been eating, trying to exude the noble authority that was her birthright. "I'm freeing you. You can atone for your crimes by fighting the Blight alongside me." His eyebrows rose ever so slightly at that, but he didn't respond. She raised her hand in an impatient gesture. "Come on. Let's go."

She claimed another win for herself when his eyebrows climbed his forehead again. "You have not, as yet, solved the problem of my incarceration, Grey Warden."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at the giant. "Solve it yourself," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest and adopting a challenging smirk. She stood there and waited to see if her hunch were true.

"Hmpf."

He looked at her for another long moment, before grasping the door of the cage with two huge hands and then squeezing them together, making the metal bend and pop as if it were as brittle as twigs. She felt a thrill of exhilaration at what she was doing. It was dangerous—Alistair would probably think her insane. She tried again to stifle maniacal laughter at that, but failed.

Her laughing and the awful screeching noise the cage door made as it was mangled caught the attention of every eye in the immediate area. She looked around defiantly as the qunari threw aside the cage door and stepped up beside her.

"So be it," Sten said, and Elissa had to crane her neck to look up at him. "I will follow you into battle. In doing so, I shall find my atonement."

"Yes," she said, distractedly. The villagers were staring at them fearfully, and she saw a few of them break off and run toward the Chantry. "Quite right."

_So . . . that might have been a tad bit dramatic._

It was far too late to do anything about it so instead of fretting she adopted her best look of noble indifference and stalked toward the tavern, not turning to see if the qunari would follow.

She was pleased when she heard the giant's footsteps fall into line behind her.

_Let them stare_.  Little good that it would do them. Who would dare approach her now? And if they did? She was a Grey Warden. She could recruit or conscript anyone she wanted, a right that had been used to rip her away from her mother, her old life . . . she'd be damned if she wasn't going to use that ability to her advantage.

She grinned triumphantly, flanked as she was by her frightening bodyguards, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself.

She had her own qunari now! Let Howe send his assassins. She'd be ready for them. 


End file.
